Every Contact Leaves Its Trace
by Cansei de Ser Sexy
Summary: One vigilante, one accomplice, one killer, and one city trying to get better; in other words, a man of despair, a woman of many faces, a child of vengeance, and a city looking more like a necropolis...
1. Chapter 1

_**Disclaimer:** Usual disclaimers stand. Doesn't belong to me, really._

_**A/N:** Hello, dear readers. After long debates with myself, I've decided to post the story I've been writing for years here on this site. I've had my reasons not to do that before, which has evidently gotten beaten by my apparent longing for appreciation and attention._

_The reason why I was hesitant before to bring it out to light was simply this: The main featuring character beside Bruce Wayne is a gender-bender, which is something I'm not still so proud of doing, and some plots lines, even though words are mostly mine, not quite belong to me, I'm kind of ripping them off, adapting into Nolanverse. I might be not the best being 'creative', but let me assure you, I'm very good at what I'm doing. __The reason why this has become a gender-bender is that Coleman Reese was having all the bases I wanted to do with this thing, and the temptation was so sweet, I couldn't resist. Hence, Coleman Reese became 'Cameron' Reese. This will be a Bruce Wayne/__semi-canon-semi-OC_ story but essentially more than anything this will be a Bruce Wayne story. Batman, obviously, will be always around, always, but I'm more interested in the man behind the mask than the mask itself. And you see, it wasn't Batman who saved Coleman Reese in the movie but Bruce Wayne, as himself, the first person Bruce helped/saved without the mask.

_The main inspiration for the story is, of course, one of my OTP's of all time, Daniel and Vala from the Stargate SG-1, which I still love with passion, and wanted to give something close to that effect to Bruce Wayne, someone he's very close and again apart like planets, but someone to whom he can place his hopes and beliefs, the thing he will probably the most need after what happened in TDK. And furthmore, a tangled friendship, in which he can be himself, doesn't need to pretend._

_The other plot-the killer idea-I said I've ripped off, is a published work of an amazing writer in my country, which something you lot most certainly didn't hear about, and I do not particularly feel well associating it to anything related to fanfiction on the internet, but if you PM me, in case of any curiousity, I'll happily let you know about it more in details. The reason of it more than anything is the theme; death, and losing people you care, and how it affects people, the essential things to Bruce Wayne, imo._

_But of course, for the last... My horde of beta-readers; first and foremost, dearest **Moonstruck Kitten** without whose editing skills and patience, I couldn't get this anything legible(and thanks **Kimmae **too for brief help); and **Progenitus,** **Godspeed Revolution, Enaskoritsi** for their critics, opinions, and generous help. First edit was done by **Elusivemuse**._

_And yes, I need a couple of beta-readers, I'm that bad!_

_Now, here the story..._

_x_

___"There is no such thing as one-sided coin."_

___- Destruction of the Endless_

**Prologue**

* * *

_One vigilante, one accomplice, one killer, and one city trying to get better; a man of despair, a woman of many faces, a child of vengeance, and a city looking more like a necropolis; in other words-a hell of a lot of problems. Succinctly put; welcome to Gotham._

x

The dogs had bigger prey to hunt, but she wasn't taking any chances. Even if the Police Commissioner himself could offer her protection, or some sort of negotiation, the woman known as Cameron Reese in one point in her life wouldn't know because she wasn't going to give away her position. She wasn't taking any chances.

The police were obviously out of the question. That much she knew the moment she had heard the latest news of Batman. The safe house where the commissioner had sent her was located on the outskirts of Gotham, gently flirting with the big city. Escape hadn't been as difficult as she'd presumed nor was the police officer that stationed to monitor her. The blonde on TV had been still going on about Batman's last criminal acts when she knocked him out; he sprawled on the floor, hands over his head, one leg crossed over other; unconscious but still breathing.

Yes, the force was out of question, so was the mob. She doubted there was any lost love between them, and even if there was, it wouldn't really matter because she wasn't going to sell him out. Not this time.

**Chapter One:**

* * *

**_Five months ago:_**

Cameron Reese was a good daughter, a good lawyer, and an even better employee. The youngest of four girls whose father dreamed of having a son, little Cameron had been raised as an obedient daughter who talked little and smiled even less. All her life had been laid out to her even before she had been born since that faithful day at the doctor's office. There had been no surprises in Mr. Reese's life so he didn't see any reason why there should be any in his daughter's.

When Cameron graduated from Harvard with a degree in Law and Accounting, her father held her by shoulders and she was told that he was proud of her, yet the cloud over his eyes didn't go by unnoticed. Cameron knew what it meant, and her father did too; but they didn't talk about it. Discussing feelings wasn't appropriate in the Reese family.

When Cameron told her father that she had been appointed to evaluate the books for Wayne Enterprises, her father smiled and told her he was proud, and she smiled back. But she's still not a son, he must have thought.

On the surface, Ms. Cameron Reese was a cold, calculating, stern woman who talked little and smiled even less. And everyone generally believed what they saw on the surface, as trusting in appearances made life easier, but it was also a one way ticket to being wrong, so dead wrong.

x

On a sunny day at the top of the ever majestic Wayne Tower, Ms. Reese appeared to be how account lawyers all around the globe were supposed to be; assidious, diligent, and always worried, and she had a very good reason to be worried, because things weren't going she'd planned, not one bit. By now she should already have been gone from Gotham —very rich—, not sitting in the middle of a tedious board meeting.

As uncomfortable as she felt in a conservative suit and fake glasses, Cameron Reese could not simply wander around Wayne Building she would like to. The Chinese suit of LSI was talking about opportunities and such, but the words were meaningless to her. Her gaze flicked toward the man across the table and her hand clenched underneath the table. God damn him to Hell and back! Bruce Wayne, the Prince of Gotham, was snoring loudly, slumped back against his chair, his head lolled over the headrest. This was stupid, she decided, entirely and completely stupid. She should have been gone long ago…

Admittedly, the corporate cons weren't her usual schemes, but a girl always had to look for greener pastures. The plan though was simple, one of the oldest of the game; find a company LSI Holdings was planning to merge with, infiltrate it, find the books, find the bank accounts, transfer comparatively small amount of money to an untraceable Swiss bank account, and then get the hell out. Yes, not exactly delicate, but the famous Casanova way; in and out, fast.

Unfortunately she hadn't calculated in the Bruce Wayne factor. Being a spoiled rich Peter Pan who happened to be handed over an awful lot of money, she could slacking him off on mundane things like his company's business, but falling asleep and snoring in a board meeting was entirely another thing. Not that this was a particularly fascinating meeting; even she had had to pinch herself a few times to keep her attention where it belonged, but still… Her glare returned to his sleeping figure; his back leaned in a posture only bursting bank accounts could supply, his elegant features eased into a peaceful state, his broad chest moving up and down with his steady breaths. She wondered briefly if he was faking it. Even she, of all of people, wasn't sure what he could possibly hope to accomplish with this mockery, but he was very, very rich and rich people were known to be eccentric.

If it had been another time, she wouldn't have minded (after all, who was she to complain about fake personalities?). She would have sat back, amused, and enjoyed the show, as long as it wasn't crossing her path. But this wasn't any other time, and he was definitely crossing her path now.

She sighed inwardly. This corporate business con had proved itself more tiresome than she had expected, and she was getting fed up with playing Good Girlie. She wished she was in her usual circle of friends where she could smack some fine points of business into their heads.

But, she wasn't quite ready to call it quits yet either. She refused to throw in the towel just because of a rich boy, however ridiculously eccentric he might be.

When the meeting came to an end; there was only a few things to be discussed when the supposed chairman kept snoring after all; she stood up and walked toward Wayne Enterprises' CEO Lucius Fox. She held her ground before the man, one foot slightly before the other, arms tight at her sides.

"Mr. Fox—" she started, her tone appropriate for talking to a superior about the big boss and glanced back toward the snoring man, "sir, I know Mr. Wayne is curious about how his trust fund gets replenished, but frankly, this is embarrassing."

Fox followed her gaze to said big boss, aka the fool of the town, and then looked back at her. She felt her stomach clench, and her very being roared in protest. Used to standing on the other side of proverbial line, she hated receiving those kinds of stares, meant only to condescend. "You worry about diligence, Ms. Reese," sneered the arrogant man. "I'll worry about Mr. Wayne."

She half-turned and closed her eyes. C_ount to ten…just think of all that money … _Fortunately that was all the motivation she needed. She had spent months planning this con, on top of the six months enduring the mundane nine-to-six office life. No, she had come here for a reason and she wasn't going back with empty hands. She turned back to face Mr. Fox, and with all the reticence she could gather she muttered, "The numbers are solid."

He gave her another patronizing stare, this time accompanied with an equally adjective smile. "Do them again," he turned to leave. "Wouldn't want the trust fund to run out now, would we?" he added over his shoulder.

She glared at his retreating back and sniffed. This had better be worth it.

* * *

She did the numbers again. She couldn't know why; when she thought she was sure about something, she tended to be right about it hence the numbers were solid, much like the first time. Then she did something else. She wasn't sure what urged her to do it, something almost primal, as much as irresistible. If she were lucky enough, she might find something against Fox and turn the tables on him. So she didn't stop with numbers, and searched Wayne Enterprises' other funds as well.

Then she caught something.

It was easy to assume it was a small glitch, easy to overlook; but to her it stood out like a red flag, beckoning to her through the screen. She decided to dive deeper, to search for other such anomalies, but to do that it was necessary to break into the files she didn't have authorization to see. That thought was enough to put her off.

_Not with haste_, she warned herself. _Delicate situations require careful planning_. With the proper tools and time she could hack into their systems. It wouldn't be easy but she could pull it off; and _if _it proved beyond her skills her she could easily hire Jeremy for another job. She wasn't really a fan of team jobs-too many problems to take care of-but Jeremy had proven himself to be a good _partner_ on several different occasions, and he was an even better hacker. He was solid, unemotional, and always down to business. It would be child's play from him to find his way in.

But was it necessary? No, not really. She was there with a goal, as impossible as it seemed, and she had enough problems already; this was no time to chase after ghosts. There likely wasn't any profit to be gained except putting Fox in his place. But that, she had to admit, would be enough payoff at the end.

_You shouldn't get personal and childish_, chided half of her mind while the other started to list necessary precautions: _An untraceable laptop is a must_… _No, stop_, she ordered herself. There must be other ways to get back at Fox without risking her cover identity. No man with his status could have risen to where he stood with clean hands.

With that thought in mind, she started to investigate his background. His ascension to power, fall, and re-ascension was a curious case, and had been the favorite subject of Wayne Enterprises' grapevine for almost a year. Suddenly it hit her, hit her hard. Straightening her back, she checked the dates. They matched. The glitch was the same day as Fox's legendary return from his exile in the basement: the day Fox's former department had merged with Archives; the same day Bruce Wayne had regained his throne from the clutches of William Earle. A definite hostile takeover, but downright illegal too?

She smiled. It seemed so.

She stood up and headed for the elevator to descend into basement. There was something, something in there, she was sure of it. And when the woman known as Cameron Reese at that point of her life was sure about something she also tended to be right about it.

x

That night, in her tiny flat, she went over her options. Jason had warned her several times about greed. _You must have control over your greed before it starts controlling you_, she could almost hear his voice in her mind. "_People say because of our profession we are greedy_," he had said, his cigarette hanging at the corner of his lips out of habit, unlit. He couldn't be counted as a good father according to any social principles but at least he had been trying, in his own way. "_to some extent, I must admit, doll, it's true, but I discovered some time ago the easiest way for a first class ticket behind the bars is greed exceeding one's abilities."_ He had fixed a mocking finger at her, "_Know thyself."_

When she had seen the designs of that_ thing _that occupied the news every night, jumping from roof to roof, pancaking police cars, she had laughed. The merry sound had ripped through the abrasive silence of Archives, and despite it she had laughed again.

How delightfully unexpected... how very _interesting_.

Once the shock of her discovery wore off, she pondered what to do. Making sacrifices was part of life for her. If you chose to become a drafter and thief as a profession, you were bound to forsake some things in favor of others, or else you wouldn't last long.

Yes, the con wasn't excellent but it was good enough, and her sources were more than a little sure LSI's income's had been gained in not-quite-legal ways so it wasn't very likely they would call a full investigation. They would surely want to deal with it themselves but she had been very careful not to leave any traces that would lead them to her. She had no partners to worry about and had worked hard to make Cameron Reese's background impeccable. Truthfully though, more than anything she had been trusting that LSI wouldn't want to gets its hands dirty over a couple hundred thousand dollars when they had the opportunity to make billions.

A couple hundred thousand dollars wasn't bad; on the other hand, the secret she had unburied must be worth millions. She felt an urge, a stupid compulsive need to be acknowledged, to amaze them, to make them appreciate her skills. _You have fooled everyone, but not me. You are good but I am better._

Greed and pride… Who could resist their call? For that she chose to blame the frailty of humanity. And truthfully, if even the great Morningstar could fall, who was lil' ol' her not to follow anyway?

* * *

The following morning she went to see Fox in his office she was dressed how Cameron Reese would dress for such an occasion. It was Ms. Reese who had come through the massive main entrance six months ago and it was crucial that the same Ms. Reese would leave it.

Dressing in the way she would have preferred wouldn't do. The fabricated background of Cameron Reese was different than hers as she'd crafted it to paint her suitable to sit in the board meetings of an intentional corporate empire. Cameron was a stern, always down-to-business woman but then again, a relief in persona must be created as _Cameron_ was going to blackmail her boss. So she wore a simple white shirt and dark, flowing high waist pants instead of the conventional suits, put her glasses on but instead of a professional tight bun, let the dirty blonde hair hang loose down her shoulders in waves. She put faint yet bright nude toned eye shadow on, going with her light green eyes, and the favorite light peach lipstick was gone, but she did go with the darkest pink, something closest to the red that Ms. Reese could wear. Yes, that should do it.

Even though he did notice the difference in her attitude (and he must have done, it was hard to overlook) he didn't show it. She sat back, and crossed her legs in a way Cameron Reese would never do under normal circumstances, mostly to worry him. Fox, however, didn't even bother to lift his head from the reports he was reading. "What can I do for you, Ms. Reese?" he mumbled nonchalantly into his newspaper.

She resisted the urge to grit her teeth and replied in a sweet tone, "You wanted me to do diligence on the LSI Holdings deal again," she said, then paused. "I found some irregularities."

He finally lifted his head up and…that stupid smile again. "Their CEO is in the police custody."

She threw at him the most benign smile she could handle and looked directly into his eyes. "Not with their numbers, with yours. Applied Sciences," she flashed another mocking smile and leaned forward, "a whole division of Wayne Enterprises just disappeared overnight. I went down to Archives and started pulling some old files." She leaned back again and looked at him smugly. "It is amazing what one could find through that mess," she cooed, then stopped to wait for an answer. He stared at her in silence, she continued: "Don't tell me you didn't recognize your baby out there, pancaking cop cars on the evening news. Now you've got the entire R&D Department burning through cash, claiming it's related to cell phones for the Army! What are you building for him now, a rocket ship?"

At that point she had to admit her mouth overran her brain. The slip of Cameron's persona was visible—she had waited so long to gloat—but luckily he didn't seem to be aware of it. He kept looking at her, and defiantly she held his stare. "Ms. Reese," he said shortly, "what do you want?"

"I want…" she halted to cause a dramatic pause. "I've never been a greedy person, Mr. Fox. I want…say…a million dollars a year. For the rest of my life."

Surprised, he straightened back, and smiled. "Let me get this straight. You think that your client, one of the wealthiest, most powerful men in the world, is secretly a vigilante…" _What?_ Could it be that she heard him wrong? "...who spends his nights beating criminals to a pulp with his bare hands…" she blinked once, then twice, "…and your plan is to blackmail this person?" Satisfied by her frozen stupor, he leaned back and _yet again_ smiled down at her. "Well, good luck."

She knew that a good fighter should know when to retreat and analyze the situation to strike back again. She stood up, and turned to leave. "Keep that as well," Fox called after her, gesturing at the plans with his head.

"I already have copies," she said through her teeth.

* * *

How had she missed it, how had _she_ let appearances fool her to the point where she didn't have any good excuses for her failure was beyond her. But dammit, hadn't it seemed logical. Definitely more logical than believing Bruce Wayne to be personally that rodent man instead of just banking and backing him up.

But, then again, everything really had started with Wayne's coming back from the dead, from his long absence doing only-God-knew what. A young man, merely a teenager who had disappeared off the face of earth the very day his parent's killer had been gunned down by the mob at the courthouse in which he had been set free. How could she have missed such a thing? She glared at the ceiling.

No, she hadn't missed that part. She had assumed that Bruce Wayne's _support_ for the vigilante was for that particular reason. And Bruce Wayne was the most self-absorbed, self-involved person she had ever known—and that was saying a lot. How he could be that _thing_…it didn't seem logical.

That night in her home, she continued to mull over him at great length. She remembered her doubts about his mannerisms, the times she had thought he was faking it. _Some things only made sense only in retrospect_, she thought grudgingly, gazing at her ceiling. But stressing over it didn't help anything; especially with Fox thinking she had known the truth. And truth to be told, what would have changed if she had known the secret anyway? She still would have threatened him.

Like she did in all times of crisis, she consulted her best friend: the short round glass in front her on the coffee table. There should _still _be something she could do with that information.

Would blackmailing Fox and Bruce Wayne for being accomplices have been less dangerous than blackmailing the vigilante directly? No. No, it wouldn't have. Would Fox tell him what she had tried...he would, certainly. Now what would Batman do to her? Threaten her, for starters, she was sure. She was also sure he couldn't harm her in a deathly way, maybe a few bruises and such but not further. He had rules, everyone knew it. She had tried to blackmail him, yes, but as much as he knew she was an opportunistic young woman who was out of her depths. Apart from an attempt for blackmail, Cameron Reese wasn't a criminal. Moral laws, social norms and semantics to be damned for all she cared.

After second glass of scotch, she had categorized the situation as '_not that bad_'.' After the third she was truly convinced he couldn't harm her fatally. By the fourth she started to consider that there might still be a way to salvage the situation.

The following night, on T.V she saw Harvey Dent declare himself as Batman.

* * *

The two days after Harvey Dent's speech at the press conference passed in no less than a frenzy. The whole word was going crazy over that painted, very hostile psychopath and she had started to get really worried. So far she hadn't really dwelled on the Joker, she hadn't thought she needed to. She had other priorities. But things were quickly getting out of control. And he seemed to be very determined to learn Batman's true identity. Could this back fire on her? Assuming that Fox hadn't yet told Wayne (and she had to for Batman had yet to make an appearance to her) there was no one else who knew what she knew. Still, even that was too much.

In retrospect she knew she should have left Gotham as soon as she saw Harvey Dent's face plastered on the TVs. It would have been the most sensible thing to do. She should have gone back into hiding and found another job somewhere else and forgot all about it. It wouldn't have been easy, leaving behind all her hard work with empty hands, but then again it wouldn't have been life threatening. Despite what she believed, money couldn't buy everything (like a life.)

Yes, it would have been the most sensible thing to but unfortunately there could be a lot of thing said about her but sensibility had never been one of those things.

* * *

"Gotham Gazette," a receptionist declared with a chirpy tone. "This is Melinda speaking. How may I direct your call?"

So she had called. She had mulled over it, again, again, and again; regarded it as one of the most stupid plans that had been ever thought of by all humanity but she had called anyway. "I'd like to speak with Mr. Engels, please."

"Who is calling?"

"I am…"She halted for a second, a brief hesitation creeping into her nonchalant tone, "I am in possession of information that will interest him."

"I am sorry," Melinda said with a voice that sounding not sorry at all. "I can't direct anonymous calls to Mr. Engels."

"How very ordinary for someone who calls himself an investigative reporter, wouldn't you agree?" She let out a throaty laugh. "I know who Batman is."

Melinda sighed heavily. "Do you know how many people have called us since this morning, all claiming they know who Batman is?"

"Quite a lot, I presume."

"Precisely."

"Look, Melinda. If you hang up on me, I'll call Gotham Times, if they do the same thing, I will call another news source until I find someone who will listen to me. Then, my dear, you will be known as the girl who lost the biggest break-through in our decade for the rest of your life. It's your call."

The receptionist stayed silent for a while then said, "I'll check if Mr. Engels is available."

She nodded, smiling at the phone, "Smart girl."

It took just few hours to sit in front of Engels, sipping a very old Chardonnay. She took another sip from her glass and set it on the table. "Well, that was lovely—"She licked the residue of the wine on her lips with the tip of her tongue and followed Engels's stare toward her lips. "Quite lovely," she repeated. "But I'd really like to state all of our terms right now."

"Always a lawyer, aren't you?"

She laughed, shaking her head. "I prefer to take that as a compliment, Mr. Engels."

He barked out a laugh. "No love for the job, huh?"

_Cameron_ shrugged. "It was my father's dream."

"Ah—"Engels said then cleared his throat. "Well then, are you going to tell me who he is?"

She shook her head again. "I am afraid I can't do that. But as a proof of my good will, I might be willing to stretch the terms of payment a little bit. Half payment in advance in a Swiss bank account, and the rest after the show."

His flirtatious attitude gone, Engels seemed now like as a sharp businessman. "No down payment, and no Swiss accounts. We'll pay after the show, if your intel is good. I'm already taking quite a risk just putting you on air."

"No," she objected tersely. "How can I trust that you will honor your word?"

"How can I trust that what you claim to know is true and that you are not someone who is just after a 'fifteen-minutes' fame?" He leaned back and crossed his arms. "Well, instincts. Mine are telling me that you're good—not quite what you seem, but a girl's gotta have her secrets. Now, tell me, what yours telling you?"

With one finger, she twirled a lock of hair around, and sniffed. "Please, it wouldn't be just fifteen minutes." Then she noticed it. That was it; a lot of her personality was creeping into Cameron's. It was high time to finish this, send Cameron into graveyard, and find some remote place in which no one had even heard of Gotham City and start anew.

"Excuse me?"

"When I appear on TV, it wouldn't be just fifteen minutes." Her lips pulled into a soft grimace as her face puckered as if she had eaten something rotten. "My fa—my father taught me that sometimes in order to reach our goals we have to make sacrifices. He could be very proud now." She stood up, and went to close deal. She offered her hand. "All right, Mr. Engels. I've decided to trust you. I believe you'll honor your word." If they lived in a perfect world, that could have been enough. But they weren't. And even though they had been, they still wouldn't be perfect people. So she held his hand tight in her grasp. "But if you won't—" She looked directly into his eyes, "Then I'll go to 'Times and tell them quite entertaining stories about you. And I guarantee you that unlike this time they won't be all true." Her gaze fell down, toward their tangled hands and fixed on the gold band around his finger. "You are married, Mr. Engels, aren't you?"

And yes, he was married, married to money, she had searched. Engels nodded, fixing her a dirty glare and she lifted her head, broke their tangled hands, and smiled back.

* * *

From the camera's small screen, she decided that she looked good. A dark chocolate, high waist pencil skirt, a cream colored, silken blouse, a pair of good imitation Louboutins-soon that would be changing-to match the blouse… She looked classy, alluring, attractive. Yes, it definitely wouldn't just be fifteen minutes; she looked really good on TV.

The assistant started to count down from five. Lifting his head up from his notes, Engels measured her with heavy eyes. Five, four... "Ok, prepare yourself. I'll have callers. Things might get bumpy." Three...

..Two... She gave him a smile. "I'm always prepared, Mr. Engels." One…On air...

"All right—" he barked out, more to her than Gotham, "—Gotham, we are back. And, look, we have already a call."

A crispy voice boomed into studio. "I wanna know how much they're gonna pay you to say who Batman really is."

Ah…first call bringing the love already… "That's not why I'm doing this," she answered directly to camera, widening her eyes just a fraction to give herself an innocent look.

Engels interrupted the caller and took a second. "Caller, you are on air."

"Harvey Dent didn't want us to give in to this maniac—you think you know better than him?"

She wanted to sigh but held her posture placidly. Then Engels played dirty. "You know, guy's got a point." She snapped her head to him, suppressing the urge to narrow her eyes. "Harvey Dent didn't want Batman to give in. Is this the right thing to do?"

She gave him a small tense smile, and tried to look heavy hearted, and rueful. "If we could talk to him now, he might feel differently—"

"And we wish him a speedy recovery. God knows we need him now more than ever," he interrupted her flatly as she momentarily entertained herself with very vivid, very colorful images what to do with him once this was over. "We have another call."

The greasy voice of an old woman filled the studio. "Ms. Reese, what's more valuable: one life, or a hundred?"

Taken aback, she straightened and grinned a little to the cameras. "I guess…that depends…whose life are we talking about?"

"Let's assume it's yours. Is it worth more than the lives of several hundreds of others?"

Her gaze skipped toward Engels, "Is this a trick question?"

"No," the woman answered flatly. "Is it worth more?"

She shook her head seriously this time. "Of course not."

"I'm so glad you feel that way," the woman said, sighing loudly. "Because I've got a bomb in one of the city's hospitals. It's going off in sixty minutes unless someone kills you."

She looked around. "Is this some sort of joke?

A high pitched laugh burst into the studio. "Joke's on you."

"Who is this?" Engels asked finally, getting out of his stupor.

"Just a concerned citizen—"Her voice dropped into a very familiar pitch. "—and a regular guy." She could recognize that voice from everywhere, so could everyone in Gotham nowadays. "I had a dream, Ms. Reese. Of a world without Batman. Mob ground out a little profit and the police tried to shut them down, one block a time—and it was so…_boring_." She felt herself getting tense and that knowing look on her face was turning to worry.

"I've had a change of heart. I don't want Ms. Reese spoiling everything, but why should I have all fun? Let's give someone else a chance—"

Jesus, she thought.

"If Cameron Reese isn't dead in sixty minutes, then I'll blow up a hospital," he paused just for a millisecond, "Of course, you could always kill yourself, but that would be noble. And you are a lawyer."

Then, God, she thought again.

She had never been much of a God person, Cathleen had it seen that too, among other things, but still she couldn't simply think past those two words. She was accustomed to being disliked and she knew for a fact that more than one person would be really happy to get their hands on her but this…this was different. People were going to take his words seriously. And who wouldn't? He was many things, but a liar he was not.

Not for the first time since she had come to Gotham, she asked herself how she could have gotten into this mess. Unfortunately for that she had no one other but herself to blame. She had brought this on herself, with her greed and pride, she had brought this on herself. She should have been much better than this.

What could she do now? What could be done? _Think!_ She ordered herself, _think!_

Run. That was expectedly her first reaction. But to where?

_No._

Analyze the situation, find some back up.

That was the problem: who could help her now? Police…? It was better to close eyes and ask for a miracle; and probably more effective too. No, the police couldn't help her. The Joker was going to play with them like a cat with a mouse. And that was what she was, a mouse…a pitiful mouse. There was only one person who could help, who would _dare_ to help her against the Joker. The man she had planned to steal from, the man she had blackmailed, the man she had tried to expose to the public just a few seconds ago. For all she knew, Bruce Wayne might just send a fruit basket to the Joker when she was finished.

Her eyes started to burn and she shook her head, _get a grip, get a grip._ No. She wasn't going to sit there in self-pity, awaiting her death in front of all those people, no, no she was not. It was only then, pulling herself out of shock, worry, and momentary self-pity, she saw that everything around her was in chaos.

Once a small room with a handful number of crew now the studio was full of people, still pouring in from others in the building. She stood up and walked toward Engels.

"You need to get the hell out of here…"He took her elbow and started to drag her toward exit. She pulled her arm out of his grip.

His assistant came toward her, running. "Ms. Reese. It's for you. The Commissioner..."

She took a deep breath and braced herself. "Ca-Cameron Reese." She tried to sound even but her voice faltered.

"This is Commissioner Gordon. Stay put and do not go anywhere. We'll come to get you."

"No. A lot of people are around here. And they keep coming," she talked fast, looking around. "I'm getting out."

"No. Stay put. We've already sealed the doors."

"Is this your phone?"

"Yes…"

"I'll call you later." With a flick of her wrist, the phone was closed.

Her face set she started to walk with a decisive pace. "Where are you going?" Engels called after her.

"Out."

The phone rang but she didn't answer. Coming out in a large corridor, she ran along the wall. The corridor was in uproar much like the studio, people running in every direction. She wondered how many of them had friends, family, acquaintances that were in hospitals, and thought how much they would be panicked now, enough to try the Joker's proposal. She kept her head down, running.

The pencil skirt didn't let her run fast though, legs couldn't get apart much with the tight hem around her knees. She cursed under her breath. God, she really hated skirts going down under her hips.

The phone rang again. "Yes," she barked out.

"Where are you?"

"Second floor, the left corridor. Where are you?"

"Stay put. We're coming for you."

She threw herself into the restroom on her left and locked the door behind her. "I entered the restroom. The hall's really crowded. Can't you run them off?"

"Don't—have time," the Commissioner's voice came out haltingly and she could hear voices in the background.

"Second floor, left corridor, women's restroom. I'm waiting."

x

She didn't wait, of course. The windows were looking out of the back side of the building but the heightened second floor wasn't a good place to jump from if you didn't have a death wish. Swearing loudly to the idiot that had drawn the plans, she slammed the window closed.

She sighed…then heard voices outside the restroom, and threw herself one of the toilets. Then, she waited. Of course.

When Gordon found her she was crouched on top of the toilet, her knees touching her breasts, arms encircling them, shoes were dangling from her fingers. She knew she looked pitiful, and she didn't care.

"There you are—"the Commissioner pulled her to her feet. "Hurry up. We need to get going."

She nodded, throwing the shoes away, and let him lead her through the building barefoot. She was spent. The adrenaline that had helped her get out was quickly fleeing too. She needed to do something, get herself out of the building, out of this mess, out of Gotham; preferably in one piece. If only she could have reached her stash and retrieved the emergency kit. Inside it were only things she needed to run away. But the way was literally full of roadblocks. She thought with her last bit of humor, that it looked ridiculously like a Mario platformer game. Jesus, she screwed up big this time.

They built a wall from bodies around her as she was dragged out of the building. The first thing she felt was wind, floating through her hair. The next second she noticed the crowd, yelling, screaming, trying to approach her. Then a round of rifle fire silenced all other sounds. She turned toward the sound on reflex, and saw a man, a man that in other times she could have thought nice, was trying to shoot her. A police officer jumped on him before he could get off the second round and Gordon pulled her tighter to his side. He opened the back door of the van and shoved her inside.

"He tried to shoot me," she stated the obvious for reasons she couldn't fathom at the moment.

"Well, maybe Batman can save you," the Commissioner answered ironically and it wasn't lost on her.

x

She knew he was going to try his chances before the message arrived to the Commissioner. She thought the Commissioner knew it too, but he regarded the message as a bad omen anyway. "Son, I'm going to have to ask for your weapon," he said, reaching for the gun, but the man pointed it at her face. She looked at barrel blankly, wanting to scream at the fool to stop dawdling and jump the guy already.

She was short on luck today though. "Why, because I've got a wife in the hospital?" His voice sounded at the border of breakdown, his grip on the metal shaking.

"Yes—"

Her gaze flicked toward outside, judging her chances. The lights were red, she could jump out—then lights turned green. Cursing her luck mentally, she straightened her back, readying her body to leap upon the man, but Gordon beat her to it, finally making his move for the gun, and as she watched the fighting men out of the corner of her eyes she saw a car, a massive SUV approaching them at top speed.

Then at that moment she got it. She was not going to make out from this. Not this time.

She closed her eyes, and waited the end come—

—A crash, the impact threw her to the ground.

A few seconds later, pinned under the Commissioner she realized he was asking her something. "Are you all right?" she registered it the second time.

She stared at him blankly but he seemed to take her lack of response as affirmative because he opened the door, pulled himself and the patrol man out with him. Alone, she poked out her head out of the corner of the door and started to get things into perspective. In a millisecond another car had come in between them.

She got out and looked at the other car. A silver Lamborghini now totaled. She turned left slowly, and barely a few feet away from her, crouching beside his car, she saw _Him._

All of the sounds around her gone silent as his gaze found hers across of the hundreds of people. Stuck for an unnamable time, unable to turn her gaze away, unable to move an inch, she just looked back at him.

* * *

_Edited as 11.03.13: Finally did the last cleaning for the first chap with help of **Gilva Lepista. **_

_Yay me!_


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two:**

* * *

The small bedroom was on the second floor of the pub, looking out on the alley below, and Valerie had to sleep with the windows closed or else she would smell garbage the whole night. Like every day, she got dressed, pulled her hair up in ponytail with her long bangs clipped by her left ear, and added a little make up, just enough to soften her sharp features. Climbing down from the staircase, she told herself, not for the first time, that she had done harder things than tending bar six days a week.

Johnny's Place was already crowded, and its crowd was already drunk. Admittedly, the usual crowd of Johnny's had never needed an excuse to get blind drunk, but today they seemed to be more determined than ever. If there was one thing consistent about these people, Valerie had come to admit, it was that they liked their drink. The jukebox in the corner of the room was on, playing some country music but it was rather broken so the vocals sounded gruff, out of tune with a static underline, but by the look of the people and the way they were swaying on their heels, no one really cared.

God, last night had been like hell, and tonight, she knew, was only going to be only worse.

Mike, the part-bouncer/part-busboy/part-bartender, greeted her with a cheerful 'hey'. She threw a smile at him and went behind the bar. She fixed a drink for a possible dealer (the usual clientele of Johnny's) then for a girl who was probably under eighteen. (She didn't ask for identification, it wasn't that kind of place.) She turned to her third customer.

"What'll it be?"

"Hello," the young man answered, leaning forward.

"Hello yourself. What'll it be?"

"Can't we talk first?"

She sighed. It was really going to be one of _those_ days. "Of course," she said tersely. "You're not ordering, I'm not pouring, and you're not drinking. We are," she glared at him, "talking."

The young man didn't look like affected by her jab. Instead, he pulled a flower from behind him and placed it on the bar. "I brought you something."

_Ah…_"_Thank you_," she bit out. "I'll put it aside," she shoved it back to him, "so when I ask again; what'll it be, and you answer me, I can put it here." Her long finger pointed to the place the flower occupied a few seconds ago. "What'll it be?"

"Doesn't matter," he answered with a shrug. "Give me whatever you want."

That made her look at him carefully. Probably in his mid-twenties, his face was covered up with at least two days beard, his clothes were saggy and old, his shoulders were hunched down, he looked a lot older than his age. She thought of the special brand, old whiskey under the shelves then decided against it. She pushed a Corona toward him. Better to be cautious than sorry.

He took it, smiling and spoke conversationally, "I wanted to come back earlier but I _had to _be sure—"

Then she recognized him as the man who had come in a week ago and decided to escape from any further conversation. "Um—sorry—I've got people waiting." She walked to the farthest corner from him.

She fixed another scotch for a dealer and looked at his companion. "Hey sexy," he greeted her.

She threw at him a flirtatious smile. "Your usual?"

He nodded and turned to his friend. "I heard Big Boys' gang is in town." Valerie's hand froze above the glass, spilling the liquid onto the counter. She put a napkin on it, eyes down, ears keen to pick up the rest of the conversation. "Man—"He shook his head, "I knew it. Soon things'll get shitty."

_Well, fuck it_. Big Boys meant police and police meant trouble. _Lots of it. _She turned halfway to look in the mirror behind her. Long, loosely wavy, dark brown hair in a messy ponytail, dark contact lenses covering her light green eyes, a sickly pale face-an effect of cheap compact powder. Disguise wasn't anything good but was the best that she could do with her limited resources. She hoped it would be enough if she had misfortune to come across one of her old _friends._

It had been only five months since she had broken out of police custody. Penniless, Star City was the farthest from Gotham she had managed to get, but deep down she was feeling it was time to move on again. Her face had gotten known around here.

A week after her escape from the safe house, she had found the pub, ordered a drink and said she was Valerie. Valerie had grown up at the streets; she was a tough girl, sexy and carefree. Later that night, she'd gone with the owner; his place was small, crowded and filthy but his hands were gentle, and his moves were experienced. She had held him tight while coming but he hadn't. In the morning, he had said she was amazing—really amazing —but he was hoping she hadn't read too much into it. She had shaken her head, smiled and said she hadn't. Before the end of the new day, his former one-night _lover_ had become his new bartender.

Valerie. She threw a smile at her reflection in the mirror. Valerie had grown up at the streets, she was a though girl, sexy and carefree. She laughed as if she meant it, and Valerie always had simpler worries.

She took the dealer's—what was his name?—almost empty glass out of his clutch, and scoffed playfully. "With customers like you—" She tried to remember his name again but came up empty, "darling, it's obvious we're never gonna be rich." She poured another drink, and put it in his hands. "And I thought I taught you better." She tilted her head to the side, eyes posing as measuring him. "But at least you're still on your feet."

She turned toward the back door. "Mike," she called the busboy and his head popped out. She showed him a Jack Daniel's bottle. "I'm getting dry here, dear. Fetch me a couple of these, will you?"

A handful of drinks later, the flower boy was calling her again. She turned back and saw him still at the corner she left him, shaking his now empty bottle at her; smiling ear to ear. She walked toward him. "It's all gone," he stated the obvious with glee, then put the flower in the bottle and stated again, "Look, there is a flower on top of it."

"I see."

"My flower for you, your juice for me," he said cheerfully.

She narrowed her eyes and examined him to see if it was some of kind cheesy innuendo. He looked sincere, almost innocent. Shaking her head despite herself, she laughed faintly. He became merrier. "I really wanted to come back earlier," he said again. "But I had to be sure."

She sighed, rolling her eyes, and admitted the defeat, "Sure of what?"

"Sure of what you said," he answered eagerly. "That's why I went home and thought about it, again, again and again…"

"Oh…What I said?"

He shook his head. "Simple words. Not important. Not as much as what you meant—"

She gave him a pitying smile. "What I meant then?"

"You meant just what I needed to hear."

"Well," she remarked, "glad to be a help."

"Just six simple words." Then she had a niggling doubt she knew what he was talking about. "I'd wait to hear them for rest of my life, come back soon—"

"—I'll be waiting." She yelled after one of the leaving customers, mostly to spite him. He slumped on his stool; she smirked.

"Look—" she paused, looking at him questionably.

"Joshua," he offered.

She stayed silent for a second. "Look, Joshua, you're—um, _cute_—but I think there is a misunderstanding here—"

He cut her off. "You don't understand."

"—If you think I somehow meant what you needed to hear at the moment when I said those words, then I have one thing to say: I did not." She pulled a glass above her and poured a handsome amount of scotch. "Look, have a drink, that's on me." She offered him the glass, smiling. "Now you can stay as long as you want, but I have a work to attend to. And I don't have time for anything else." Joshua slumped further and, feeling satisfied with his disheartened figure, she left him there.

Around the two in the morning, Mike finally lit the lights above the bar, and under the eerie light of the pale fluorescents they started to close the pub. He walked the last drunks out (running one out from under the bar with his broom) while she tended to the bar. He then left, shoulders hunched, not as cheerful as earlier in the evening and closed the doors behind him. It had been a long night for everyone.

She stood in silence behind the bar and listened to the sounds of night. Autumn was fading quickly as winter approached;it was a chilly November night. On the wind she heard distant police sirens, coming from far away. Head bowed, she kept listening as something she couldn't depict washed over her very being. Could she categorize that as despair? Familiar symptoms—that bitter ache deep inside, drilling itself through her, and that indescribable helplessness—suggested that was the case, and it reminded her of things she would rather not, and ache—then she noticed her hands started trembling.

_No!_

A simple command, hard and brutal, stopped the trembling. She pulled the special brand out and fixed herself a drink. The bitter taste of scotch burned her throat, sliding to her stomach, and she gulped down a second one. She knew what she needed and wasn't able to get it. Action and distance, those were what she needed, yet she couldn't afford them. She was short on the money to start anew, the nearest available emergency stash was stationed in Gotham for the time being and she couldn't retreat back without putting herself in further jeopardy. And she couldn't return to her old friends, not when there weren't any gambling chips in her hand while they wanted her head. She had run herself into a corner in every sense of the word.

She turned back and there he was, Joshua, below the staircase waiting for her, holding his flower in front of him, smiling hopefully. Not caring enough to argue anymore, she took the flower, but warned for the last time. "I'm not what you are looking for."

"Yes. Yes, you are," he objected with a defiant tone. "I found you at the exact moment I wasn't looking for anything. I wasn't searching, clawing, begging…I was just here for a drink." He came closer and put his fingertips on her cheek. She closed her eyes, hooked her fingers through his pants belt loops and turned half aside toward to the restroom's direction…"Then I found you, Cecile. Fate, you might even call it."

As her hand dropped, her eyes fluttered open… and then she stared. "Danny… Little Danny?"

A sharp pain above her left lower arm jolted up her body; she stumbled on her heels and pulled a little syringe out of the crook of her elbow. When the first shock wore off, survival instincts kicked back in. Not dawdling any longer, she threw a kick, and ran toward the door. A tight grip caught her ponytail and her head collided with the metal door with a heavy thud. Blood started to drip downwards. Her hands held the door, trying to open it madly, but there were other hands pulling her back. She tried to fight back, tried to break herself free, but her limbs weren't listening to her will. They were heavy like stone and the world consisted of a mere blur.

The last thing she noticed before passing out was his voice. "Cecile…beautiful Cecile, how could you?"

* * *

She woke up in the front seat of a moving car, handcuffed with arms strained backward and in a great deal of pain, while the rest of her body felt like mush. She forced her head to turn slowly to look outside. Scenes passed before her eyes like a lucid dream, and she closed her eyes and then forced them open again. _Focus. _With a sinking feeling, she saw that they were heading toward Gotham.

"Danny…" Her voice came out a hoarse whisper, "If this is a revenge thing..." She turned to him. "Most of the time, I was an unwilling party in Jason's unwise schemes. I really didn't want to hurt you or your brother—"

"Where is your father?" he cut off her tersely.

"I don't know. I haven't seen him for a long time."

He gave her a hard look, and she swallowed. "I really don't know. We grew apart."

"What a pity. You were quite a family. Daughter to make men fools and father to rob them for good. How old were you when he sent you into my brother's arms? Sixteen?"

"Fifteen," she answered coldly. "And you don't know what you're talking about. Jason only hurt him because he was hurting me. You don't remember…you were too young."

His fist collided with the wheel and he barked out, "I remember well enough. I remember how you looked at him, how you smiled at him. You were so beautiful, Cecile. You made him very happy." With a wishful whisper, he added, "You made me very happy. Why didn't you say no to your father?"

"Daniel…I was young, and he was my father," she said slowly. "What happened to him?"

With a cold, detached voice, he answered, "He died in prison."

_Fuck it!_ She forced herself to cry and as expected in these kinds of situations began lying. "I'm so very sorry, Daniel. I'm sorry for what happened to him. I'm sorry for what I did to you." She looked at him through heavy lashes, eyes clouded with unshed tears. That was Danny, the little boy who was ready to jump up and down at her every word, the boy who would have done anything to please her; the little boy who had loved his brother's lover platonically. "I know you don't want to hurt me. It's still me, Cecile."

A heavy slap landed on her face, the ring on his finger caught on the corner of her mouth, and it started to bleed. "Don't you dare play that with me, woman."

_Well, things change_. That had been one of the first lessons she had learned too. She dropped the act and glared at him. "What are you going to do with me?"

"Before I came here, do you know where I was?" Something cold and heavy dropped in her stomach. She knew, of course, what was coming next. "Gotham," he went on with a friendly voice. "Nice city. I was working for the Irish and then we had a sort of misunderstanding. Before the Joker business got out of the control, I had to leave the city. But I saw you on TV. You were looking different, certainly more elegant and mature, but it was you, I was sure of it. Did you really think that no one would have recognized you? You have a very memorable face." His gaze skipped toward her for a second. "I guess that held no importance to you. You were going to be very rich."

She sneered at him. She had thought of it before, of course, and had depended on her old friends not to bore themselves with Gotham's problems. _So…so stupid._ Daniel continued, "The mob in Gotham put a great deal of money on your head and the Irish would be willing to call off some debts, a clean state, you see, it's not _just_ a revenge thing."

"I'm not going to tell you who he is. I won't."

He barked out a humorless laugh. "I _don't_ want to know. Why would I? That knowledge only means trouble. Look at you," His gaze skipped again from the road momentarily to give her a look, "What you have become because of it. Police after you, the mob after you, and after Batman started to go on the killing road, I'm sure he's after you _too._" She started to stir and test the handcuffs. "No, I don't wanna know who he is," he repeated. "I'm just giving you to the Irish and then _he _will find ways to make you talk." He looked at her again, his attention distracted. "Seriously though, I don't understand why you are playing the 'I'm so loyal' bullshit—"

She didn't mull it over in her mind how exactly stupid a thing it was to do; just threw herself at him. His hands flew off the wheel as her head fell onto his groin. His hand tried to steer the wheel as the other tried to pull her off him and she sank her teeth through his jeans until she got his balls. A howl ripped out of him and she kept biting. The car jerked violently, ran off the road, she lifted her eyes upward and saw that it headed toward the barrier. She tried to brace herself for the impact and sent a wordless prayer to whoever listening.

The car hit the metal barrier with deafening sounds, they flipped once, and landed upright inside the riverbed at the roadside.

She didn't know how long she had stayed in that tin can but when she came to, she was soaked with water and there was no movement under her. Daniel's face was dropped on the wheel over her body, bleeding. She tried to move her limbs and oh boy, it _hurt_. She could barely see through the hair and blood covering her face but they seemed to be off the road in one of Gotham River's frail arms and it was a sort of miracle that she wasn't in any immediate danger of drowning. She sent a silent thank you to global warming; Gotham had just had its driest summer in forty years, and she couldn't have been more grateful of it at the moment.

She was burning with pain yet it was _painfully_ obvious that she needed to hurry. Her injures were still fresh and soon they would be only worse. Now she could take it, but later it might be impossible to move even a finger. With her hands tied behind her back there weren't many things to do. The windows were closed even before the crash, and to open the door she needed her hands.

She stirred her body, ignoring the pain, moved her head toward his pocket, left for the first, to find the keys for the handcuffs. Her teeth came across change and other stuff, and then there they were…keys. She fished them out and started to pull herself back. She rose on her knees and tried to turn her head to the side. She kept turning until it was in line with her hands and opened her mouth. When the keys fell on her hands, she made a guttural victory scream. In reality, it must have been like a guttural whisper but it had sounded to her much like a scream. She tried to open the door but it was of course stuck. She tried again, forcing it with her shoulder and then pulling herself back toward Daniel, she kicked it with her all strength.

It opened, and she just cried in relief.

She threw herself out, dropping into riverbed on her knees then went to other side of the car. She put two fingers on Danny's pulse and felt a faint throb. Then she handcuffed him to the wheel and walked away.

* * *

Global warming or not, it could be said that it was a normal November night. The temperature was twenty-nine degrees Fahrenheit; the wind speed, a mere ten miles an hour. Not extraordinary in themselves but combined together they created a wind chill cold enough to freeze her to death. Trembling constantly with powerful shivers, she followed the river for almost an hour and stayed out of the sight of the main road. Toward the end of the hour, her feet stumbled upon some root, and she collapsed face down on the earth. She stayed there, motionless, not moving an inch. She couldn't have guessed walking might demand this much effort.

However, she could stay there, rest a little while. She was safe now. She was bleeding, might be suffering internal injuries, and could die of exhaustion any minute but she was safe. And here was so much better. It wasn't as cold as before, she could even say it was warmer. _And_ she was tired, maybe she could close her eyes for a minute and rest—just for a little while… She shook her head defiantly and cursed the symptoms of mild hypothermia. She needed to find a shelter, very quickly.

Gathering her strength, she pulled herself back to her feet.

She hadn't any idea where she was or how close she was to Gotham. Surely being close to Gotham wasn't a good thing, but for now she couldn't even bring herself to care. 'One problem at a time' had been her life's motto as of late. The first priority was to find a warm shelter, get rid of her soaked clothes, and try to patch herself back together. She could deal with rest later.

Driving an average speed, the distance between Gotham and Star City was a three hour trip. When they closed the pub, it had been around two in the morning, and if she wasn't horribly wrong there were still a couple of hours until the dawn. Then again, she'd lost consciousness not one but twice, so her calculations could have been all wrong. But judging by the look of her surroundings she calculated she was still on the outskirts of Gotham, possibly an hour away from the city. If she were correct, she should be coming up on a local industrial zone with a warehouse district.

She walked for a good half an hour more before she saw the distant, looming image of what she was seeking over the horizon.

* * *

Trying to wander undetected around a warehouse district wasn't as easy as it used to be. Most companies had come to follow modern ways, putting the security cameras outside and within, with night guards accompanied by big dogs patrolling the perimeters every hour. She tried to avoid the curious little big brothers as much as she could and didn't see any of the night guard at all, with or without dogs. As pleasant as it was, it was hardly a big surprise; it was a small district, almost deserted in favor of Gotham's bigger ones. Fifteen minutes later, she found what she was looking for; a prefabricated building, two stories, half of its windows broken, left to desolation.

She considered going inside through the broken windows but decided against it. The windows appeared to be smashed by local gangs and the residue of the glass could be very fatal in her poor condition. Instead, she tested the main entrance, guarded merely by an old style metal door, blocking its way from strangers with the help of a rusty padlock. She checked her hair and found the clip she had fastened the left side with was still there. She sent another silent 'thank you' to no one in particular and started to work on the lock.

Under normal circumstances, it wouldn't have taken more than a few seconds, but with her trembling fingers it took ages, pins turning around and around until she heard that familiar 'tick'. She pushed the door with all her weight and slipped inside, and, closing it as silently as she could, she rested her back against the cold metal. _Finally._

Rows and rows of shelves lined the walls, mostly empty, rusting. She noticed a couple of boxes left behind, and went to investigate. A large box labeled for a company she didn't recognize was the first she ripped open. Toilet paper. Laughing faintly, she took another and tore it open too. With a handful of paper, she started to pat herself dry. One of the smallest boxes turned out to be full of blue working coats of the said company, left behind with other boxes. She picked out three of them with a happy sigh and started to peel off her soaked clothes, including her wet socks, panties, and shoes. The clothes came off painfully, stuck with blood, sweat, water and mud. The parts of her body that were visible were covered with angry slashes and very worrisome bruises, but she didn't dwell on them. If she could survive the night, they would eventually heal. The thing that perturbed her though was the swell she had seen just over her last rib; it looked like something close to a crack. She put on two coats and started to wander again. The coats left most of her legs bare and the chill was still biting, but it was much better than outside, and the funny, smelly coats surely were better than soaked jeans and sweatshirt, too. She saw a door at the farthest corner, and it opened to a room without windows. She searched the walls in the pitch black; her fingers found the switch, and there was the light.

It took some time for her eyes to become accustomed to the bright light again. When they did, she saw one small office station with a dusty desk and broken chair. She tore through the desk's drawers, and her eyes lit up when she saw an unopened package of cookies. She tore it open agitatedly, stuffed the food into her mouth, and checked the telephone on the desk to discover that the line was still working. The old and battered couch across from the desk was the most comfortable piece of furniture she had ever seen, but her real findings were the red first aid kit and the water heater hidden at the corner beside of the little kitchenette. Under the kitchenette, there wasn't kettle or coffee maker left behind, but she found a small dirty bowl of sugar. She took three cubes out, and threw them in her mouth. Sucking the sugar, she reasoned that, if there was water heater, there might be a shower too, and her most precious finding was there squeezed in the corner farthest from the desk; merely a small bathtub, the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

She turned on the water and was relieved when murky, heated liquid spilled from the showerhead. She pulled off the coats in a second and hopped into it. Her body and wounds protested the sudden change of temperature, but she didn't care. She stood motionless and watched the blood, mud, and dirt wash off her body. She didn't let herself think of anything other than the twirling dirty water below her feet. She didn't want to think now; truthfully, she didn't want to think at all. Almost thirty-one years, and all she had learned from life was that the only thing you could do was go on.

Her miracle came to an abrupt end with the water getting cold. With a deep sigh that summed up her life of late, she turned off the tap. She patted herself dry quickly with paper towels, and put on the dry coats. She couldn't do anything for her hair but try to dry it with paper and as desperate as she was, she wasn't willing to experiment it. She opened the first aid, and swallowed three painkillers dry. She started to wash her cuts with antiseptic but it was mostly gone, so instead she began to dress them using the tattered bandages.

When she had done all things that could be done with the limited resources the warehouse had gently provided, she walked toward the sofa barefoot and lay on it. She used the other coats to cover her legs and feet, turned to her unwounded side, and _then_ reflected on the situation.

One word summed it up very nicely; fucked. She thought from all the angles she could come up with, and every time she came to the same conclusion. _You have no other option._

* * *

The dawn had just broken when she made the call. The phone rang, rang, and rang…then a voice with a graceful British accent answered, "Hello?"

"Mr. Pennyworth," she said, voice trembling slightly. She chose to blame the chill for that. "I need to talk with Mr. Wayne."

The other side of the line was quiet for a while. Then he spoke, "Who is calling?"

"Cameron Reese."

* * *

"I didn't expect you to call," Bruce Wayne said as a way of greeting. "At the police custody your message was very clear."

Ignoring his unspoken inquiry, she answered, "I need your help."

"Why should I help you?"

"I didn't sell you out."

She had expected a derisive laughter, a snort, or something for that reply, but it didn't come. His voice sounded unaffected as he stated the facts. "No. You merely blackmailed me and _then _tried to expose me for money."

"What would you have me to do? People were dying and you weren't doing anything."

"Don't expect me to believe that you did what you did for the good of people," he remarked placidly and started to speak again but she cut him off.

"Mr. Way—"She shook her head; no, she wasn't going to call him Mr. Wayne, not now, not when _he_ held the bargaining chips on his hands. "Bruce—we can all point fingers at each other whole time but let's _not_. The bottom line is that you owe me one. I could have gone to mob or stayed with the police. But I didn't. I kept your secret."

"And why's that?"

"It's possible that I might have behaved a little bit—_inconsiderately…_" She confessed and urged herself to go on. "What you did for me that day…" She faltered; honesty didn't really work for her. "I don't expect you to understand." And she didn't, especially when _she_ could hardly do so herself. If she hadn't been truly desperate she would never have called him, but the thought of selling him out—again—she just didn't want to do that. "But understand this: I'm a liability to you. You wouldn't want me to wander around without help."

There was a tense silence again from the other side then he rasped out in a low tone, edgy, carrying _danger _in itself. "Are you threatening me again?"

"No!" she objected in a hurry and then continued in a more collected tone, "No. I just advise caution. I won't go to the mob or the police if you refuse me now. I'll do my best, but let's be realistic; sooner or later one of them will catch me." And unfortunately there was a limit to her loyalty too, a limit that she most certainly didn't want to learn about. "If you can't bring yourself to help me, then help yourself."

Silence… Damn. She tried the honest approach again. "Look, I've brought this on myself, and I'm trying to deal with it. It's not easy for me either, groveling to you like this. And believe me I wouldn't if I had any other option. But truth is, I, um, I—don't—" She faltered on words, hesitation crept in but she forced herself to go on because if there was any other thing she was good at besides self-preservation it was certainly manipulation, and she knew very well sometimes hard-fact truths were the best tools to manipulate people; another lesson she had learned until it was deep in her bones, thanks to Jason. "I don't have anywhere else to go." Silence again… "Say something…"

With a quiet voice, he did, but it wasn't what she had expected. "How can you trust that I won't choose to eliminate this—threat against me?"

"You saved me once."

"That was long ago. A lot of things have changed since then."

A chill, one that had nothing to do with her coldness, ran through her body. "I was hoping it still means something."

"Yes, yes, it does," he agreed and closing her eyes, she let out a deep rough breath. "Where are you?"

"I'm not—sure," she made a noise. "Aren't you tracing the line?"

A brief silence fell over the line, and then he said flatly, "I need more time."

"Well, hurry up," she answered causally, "Can't say I'm in best shape."

"I want to ask you one thing."

"I'm listening."

"What's your real name?"

"Valerie," she answered without missing a beat.

* * *

If there had been anything resembling fairness in life, when he'd found her—instead of drooling over the sofa like a moron, closed to passed out—she would have been on her feet, looking not as good as Cameron Reese but at least as strong as her. But like everyone with an ounce of brain knew, life was not fair, so she was drooling, and it had to be him who took her out of the land of dreams.

A hand on her shoulder shook her slightly and she woke up with a start, reflexes forcing her to stand even as pain burned through her body from the sudden movement. She whimpered but held her posture stiff regardless of her trembling. Pain, she didn't like, but could handle. Eyes trying to focus, she stared.

There he was, Bruce Wayne, standing just a few feet from her, looking more serious than she'd ever seen him. There was a gloomily air around him, somber and brooding; his face was pale and seemed to be carved out of stone without his usual quirky smile. Not the man who fell asleep in board meetings certainly. But his gaze was still the same as the day he had saved her; blazing, measuring, keen; taking everything around and about her into perspective.

His hands went toward his back and instinctively she tensed, fear projected on her face as she took a small step back. He raised his hands up in the air, palms facing her in the universal sign for peace, and smiled. It was faint, barely there, one edge of his mouth slightly tilted up, eyes not breaking their contact, and she kept his gaze, hypnotized, and watched him as he took off his long coat. He then draped it over her shoulders. "You really _aren't_ in the best shape."

In her better days, she would sniff at such a comment, but evidently it wasn't one of those. So instead, she nodded and put her arms through the coat. Smile gone, his face was closed again. "Let's go."

She nodded again and searched for her scattered clothes, trying to clean all traces left behind. The shoes were still wet, and so were the socks when she found them. She added her underwear to her little bundle of garments, and with a sigh she put the dripping shoes on. When she was sure there was nothing else to do, she turned to him. "All right, that's it. I think I'm done." But there was still something, a small uncertainty she was mulling over in her brain, so she bit her bottom lip and said, "I tried to avoid any security cameras while I broke in, but I'm not sure I've been careful enough. And I _want_ to be sure that none of it come back to bite me in the ass again."

He shook his head, took her arm, and led her toward the main door. "I'll deal with them later."

_Riiiight… _They walked out as dawn painted the sky in a mystic orange and purple. She wondered if they appeared like a scene in a classic movie, two lone figures, walking side by side to a future unknown…two strangers whose paths had collided in twists of fate. Her odd thoughts came to an abrupt halt upon seeing his car. Another silver Lamborghini, and this time she recognized it well enough; Murcielago. She started to laugh silently. There was something so irrelevantly ironic with the situation. She couldn't help it; her laughter became louder.

Scowling, he looked at her, hard. "What's it?"

Shaking her head, she settled on the passenger seat, "Nothing."

Inside the car, he gave her another look and started the engine. The beast came alive with a deep growl and lunged forward. She leaned back then and took in the comfort of her warm environment. She pulled the visor mirror down to look at her face and winced at the sight before her.

She hadn't exaggerated, nor had he; definitely not in the best shape, nope, not even close. The residue of blood and dirt was still apparent on her skin, and one nasty looking lump sat just above her hairline; surely from when Danny had smashed her head to the pub's door. One side of her face was covered with angry slashes and bruises that were promising to turn nasty. She touched the corner of her mouth where Daniel's ring had caught her skin, and ran her nail along the trail.

_She studies the marks his nails left behind, brows pulled into a scowl, "It hurts," she says at last. Her father nods. "I thought he loved me, how can you love someone and then try to hurt them?"_

_Her father looks at her. "It's possible to love someone and want to hurt them at the same time, daughter. There are a million states of love, and every one of them, in the end, hurts."_

"_I tried to hurt him too," she says slowly._

"_Yes," he agrees, then looks at her. "Did you love him too?"_

_She looks back at him, then darts her gaze away, "I loved the way he loved me."_

_Her father laughs, teeth flashing, eyes gleaming, "So everyone does, my dear, everyone."_

_She nods, scratches the fiercest gash on her flesh, and says with a petulant tone, "This is going to leave a scar."_

_He laughs again, "Pumpkin, remember," he pulls her arm forward, pushing her fingers aside, "Every contact leaves a trace behind."_

That scar had faded long before, just a faint pale ridge on her upper arm now, and she had ripped the others off her body, aside from one—a faint line over under her chin over her neck that hid behind a cascade of hair, just above her artery. Her nail unintentionally trailed again along the newest one. Yes, every contact left its trace behind, and it had been _so_ close this time.

"What happened to you?" Eyes focused on the road, Bruce Wayne finally asked.

She snapped the mirror back, reclined her head, and closed her eyes. "I got kidnapped," she answered simply. She opened her eyes, and pointed at the navigation. "Is this where we are?" He nodded. "Your mobile, is it untraceable?"

"Yes—"

"May I use it?"

He gave her another one of those hard looks, eyes sharpened and narrowed into a faint scowl. She tilted her head toward him and forced herself to pull on a thin smile, lips not parting. His left hand went to his pocket; he fished the phone out and threw it in her lap. She took it and dialed nine-one-one.

"_OH—GOD, OH—GOD_," she barked out in a voice close to hysterical, and with the corner of her eye she caught his scowl growing deeper. "_Oh-my-god_, there's a crash on the outside of Gotham, on the—" She leaned forward to read the zone's name. "—on the Gullain, at the roadside—someone is stuck there—no…I can't…No, I don't know but he's injured pretty badly." She lowered her voice, "I don't think he's a good guy," then added almost as a whisper, "he's handcuffed to the wheel."

She closed the phone and gave it back to him. "I was tending a bar in Star City," she explained flatly. "He found me there toni—last night and made his move. Drugged me before I understood what was happening, and when I came to myself, we were heading back to Gotham. He said he was going to give me to the Irish." She gave him a pointed look. "He said they put a good price on my head."

His hands gripped the wheel tighter until his knuckles became white. "The accident?" he questioned.

"I threw myself at him to cause an accident. I came to before him, handcuffed him to the wheel then ran away."

"Handcuffs?" he asked with a growl that was getting on her nerves.

"He handcuffed _me_," she snapped back. "I'm not running around with handcuffs." Although she was really starting to consider making it into a habit. "If you _still_ have any further inquiries they will have to wait. I'm really not in best shape for questioning either." She rested her head back again, closed her eyes, and refused to acknowledge him any further. If he was going to kill her and throw her into some God-forsaken pit, then they were going to see. She just hoped she wouldn't need to bite _any _of anyone's body parts again.

* * *

_A/N: The pub scene is inspired by something I read in SW fandom long ago, and the warehouse stuff I snitched from a story called Winter Bourne in Bourne fandom. It's here in this site, amazing stuff._

_Light, more light!_ was the (presumely) the last words of Goethe.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three:**

* * *

She passed the rest of the week and another one in a haze of heat, hovering between the border of the land of dreams and the waking world. Most of the time, when he was home, Bruce spent his time with her, sitting on the armchair beside her bed, brooding eyes riveted on her sleeping figure, all the thoughts related to his daytime work forgotten until it was time to go out to patrol his city.

Alfred had set her up in the main guest room across the hallway where his master bedroom was. He was not exactly happy with her presence but she was a guest so he had tended her injuries, dressed her rib, and looked after her as was expected of a prefect butler.

And Bruce still didn't know what to make of her. She had said her name was Valerie and he knew without a shadow of doubt that was as much truth as her being Cameron Reese. At best scenario, she was a self-serving con artist, only caring for her interests. He had researched her thoroughly, after she had disappeared with no trace behind. Every lead he had come to a dead end, and when he had started to look for her, things had ended up in another dead end once again or just in sordid tales. After her disappearance, there were no records, no covered image in CCTVs, no bills, no phones, not even credit card bills. The police officer she had taken out had claimed that she had seemed like any other perturbed honest woman who had made a grievous mistake, worried and scared but Bruce had heard the stupefied tone in the young man's voice, and had seen on the screen the faint blush on his cheek as he'd talked about her being _lovely_. The fact was clear, the officer had been comprised.

She'd coaxed the young man, knocked him out, and ran off. And then she had spent the last five months on run while keeping his secret still to herself, even though it wasn't _only_ for him. Alfred, of course, had warned him too, _"Don't mistake survival instincts for genuine compassion, Master Wayne. I doubt she's capable of caring about anyone other than herself." _And regardless of it, or maybe just because of it, he was—intrigued.

He'd already made up his mind after her first words; of course he was going to help her. If nothing else, she was a security breach, as she had _kindly_ reminded him. He only couldn't understand how she could trust him. As far as she knew, he was a killer, and still, she'd called him. She'd hinted it was because he had saved her, but she had also said she didn't expect him to understand and he had a nagging suspicion that she didn't do herself too, couldn't understand why she was asking his help.

"How's our Sleeping Beauty faring today?" Fox asked. Bruce had noticed him enter the room a few seconds prior but as the older man hadn't spoken, he hadn't either.

"Sleeping…" Bruce answered indifferently.

Fox nodded, shoved his hands into his pockets, and fidgeted. Bruce put his hand on his bowed head. "Lucius, if you have something to say, say it. But please, stop fidgeting." Truthfully, it was starting to worry him, seeing the older man like this.

"All right—"Fox took a deep breath and began as if he had been waiting for this opportunity for a long time. "Are you sure this is a wise course of action?"

"What do you want me to do? Hand her over to the mob or the police? She's a walking threat to me. Sooner or later I was going to have to deal with her."

"Send her back to Gordon."

"No. Gordon can't protect her by himself."

"He's the Police Commissioner. Besides, she doesn't seem in need of any protection to me. She seems to do quite fine all by herself." He threw the envelope he carried on Bruce's lap.

"She isn't what she seems, Mr. Wayne." This was a good observation, but was hardly flashing news. Setting himself onto the coach across the bed, Fox continued. "Look at the photos. Look at what she did with her hands handcuffed behind her. Yesterday the man died while in a coma. She's dangerous." Bruce tore the envelope open, took the photos out by one by one. Under his bowed head, he glanced toward the bed. It was almost impossible to believe that frail form had caused the destruction in the photos. "I know how you feel—"He lifted his head from the photos sharply. "—but you have to stop dwelling in the past. You have to move on."

Bruce stared at Fox, and the older man stared back, but it was him that broke contact first. "It doesn't have anything to do with it."

"Yes, it does," Fox pressed further determinedly. "You don't just think of her. You think of _him_. Send her back to Gordon."

"No." Bruce stood up and left the room.

* * *

He returned at the break of dawn that morning, looking more solemn than ever. He walked into his cabinet to peel his armor off and when he walked out, Alfred was there, ready to clean his injuries. Bruce shook his head: No, not this time, tonight he wanted to bleed.

He went to her room, crashed into the armchair, and fell asleep.

_It's the same dream every night, in every sleep, him lost in the darkness, lying on his mattress, legs hanging over the side of the bed, bare feet chilled on the cold tiles, eyes fixed above, waiting. And every night she comes, smiling, and each time light follows her; she pulls the sheet over them, the dark sheets turn to white and there is light, more light. "I love you," he whispers as her fingertips run along his features, her touch even colder against his cold skin. When she cries her tears freeze._

_He misses her every day, every night, every hour, every second, every instant…_

When he woke up in the following afternoon, Valerie—Not-Valerie—was already awake, studying him with curious eyes. There was color in her face that had been missing for a week, her gaze glinting feverishly.

He tore his eyes off her, and with a stony voice announced. "He's dead."

He caught her blinking twice with the corner of his eyes and then a wrinkle appeared above her brows. "Who's dead?"

"The man who kidnapped you," he answered back. "He died yesterday at the hospital."

A cloud passed over her face momentarily before it was passive again. "Well, not going to lose any sleep over it."

"You are not Valerie," he said then. She was taken aback by what he had suddenly dropped off but didn't object. "You weren't Cameron either." He pressed on. "Were you here for the deal with LSI Holdings?"

A long finger caressed the satin linen and she raised her eyes to him. When she spoke next, the words were uttered in inquisitiveness, coming from deep in her throat, "What's the point of asking questions whose answers you already know?"

"Who are you?" he asked again.

She gave him that smile, lips not parted; daring, knowing, and mocking all at once, "Just a girl."

"What's your name?"

She shrugged. "Cathy, Lizzy, Dizzy, Minnie. What makes difference? Names are overrated."

"What do your parents call you?"

She gave him an unreadable look. "Nothing. Grew up in foster homes." And she sounded, Bruce noticed with dread, even proud.

"Everyone has a name." There was only one man he knew who hadn't one, and so he wanted to name her for names weren't overrated but rather powerful. Everyone who had the slightest curiosity about legends and magical stories would know that same principle; in order to possess one, to steal its power you had to know its true name.

She didn't seem to think so though, as she allowed him to know her _secret_ with a dismissive sound. "My birth certificate says Sarah."

"Then Sarah—"he started.

She interrupted him, shaking her head. "Don't call me that. It's just a word written on some paper. It's _not_ my name."

"Then what do you call yourself?" he asked, frustrated.

"I've been called many things." She smiled. "But you can call me Valerie. Valerie is a girl who is deep in trouble, and so am I."

"So, Valerie," he conceded, giving up on what looked to be a pointless repetitive argument. "Do you have a plan?"

She pushed herself up from the bed and rested her back against the pillows lining the headboard. "As a matter of fact, yes, I do." She clicked her tongue. "It's not very _usual _though." With a hesitant gaze, she looked at his impassive face. "So I know a guy… a doctor in Ireland… he used to take care of some—_identity_ _crisis problems_."

"Meaning?"

She gave him a pointed look, and in return he gave her a hard one. "You're not serious."

"I've got a very memorable face. It can be a bane as much as a gift." She huffed in a mock of ruefulness. He looked at her, astonished, her expression then sobered. "I can't see any other way out. My… face has gotten too recognizable. I've been thinking about it for a while but it needs money..." The look she gave him also told him where exactly he fit into this plan. "Well, what do _you _think?"

He remained in silence. What did he think, what could be thought for such a _thing_? "After the operation, I'll go far away, out of the States," she went on further to convince him. "Maybe North Africa or the Far East. I haven't decided yet. You _won't_ have to deal with me again. Think of it as an investment."

A thought surfaced out of depths of his mind, and instinctively he followed it. "I'll need to think about it," he said, standing up to leave.

* * *

Later, he let Alfred tend his wounds. He sat on the bench in the cave with Alfred standing before him, a needle between his old but delicate fingers, eyes keen, and gentle as ever. Over the course of last two years, Alfred had gotten used to this; as if patching him up every time he returned with a serious injury was wholly expected in his line of work. Yet, while he spoke the older man's hands faltered.

"Are you sure it's a good decision, Master Wayne?" The way he put the question clearly told Bruce that he thought it was indeed not.

Bruce shook his head. "No—But I feel like it's the right one, Alfred." He winced slightly as Alfred put a little more pressure than necessary on the needle. "And what else can I do? I can't send her away on her own."

Alfred's hands faltered again briefly and then he offered, "Send her to Gordon. He can take care of her."

So, Fox hadn't been talking only to him. He shook his head again. "No, Alfred. Gordon has already a lot on his plate." Another mob war was about to start, very soon, he could even feel it. With Maroni dead, and the other leaders wasting some quality time behind bars, it left a power vacuum that more than one mediocre mob boss would very much like to fill. He shouldn't need to deal also with this. She was _his_ problem.

"He can't deal with her," he continued after a time and half turned to his left side to give the older man one of his rare grins. It was small, barely there but Alfred was old enough to know that one should appreciate the small wonders when they were offered. "But I will threaten her with it." Then the smile disappeared, and with a hardly audible voice, he added. "It has to work, Alfred. Something _good—_" He emphasized the word strongly and then repeated again. "—something good must come out of this."

Alfred closed his eyes, "Master Wayne—"

"No, Alfred…" He cut him off. He already knew what his words were going to be. "To learn to pick ourselves up, we have to fall first."

Bouncing those words back to him didn't move Alfred as much as Bruce had hoped; instead he looked sadly at him. "You can't save everyone, sir."

"She has potential, Alfred. Yes, she tried to blackmail me. She tried to use me for her own ends, and she is still…trying, but when she believed she had run out of options, she called me. It couldn't be just because she believed I'm the lesser of the two evils." He hesitated briefly, "There—there is still a chance for her." He knew he was crazy to believe it, deluded, yes that must be the answer, lost in his delusions, but she had…called him. "She's lost but she can find her way again." He didn't say that he had been there once, at the brink of losing himself, and that was what happened when you had only yourself for a long time, looking for something you couldn't even name.

Instead he said; "Bars won't hold him long, Alfred." He didn't clarify who he was referring to. Alfred already knew. "Someday he will be back, back to start anew. _And_ there is a mob war hovering over us. I want to be fully prepared. I need someone else besides you working with me; someone capable, someone who already knows who I am; you already take enough risks." He didn't say that they needed to believe in her before she started to believe in them.

And he most certainly didn't say that if one bad push was enough to throw someone decent into fits of madness, one good deed should be enough to pull someone not-quite decent up from the depths of human depravity.

_It must be_, he told himself determinately. He had to believe it to maintain his sanity.

* * *

She wasn't healed completely, not yet but at least she didn't look anywhere near as wasted as a week ago. Even though they were slightly paler, the bruises still looked fiercely brutal but she thought she could use them for her case, for it seemed like even the most enigmatic of men were captured by damsels in distress. She didn't know if it was because of some sort of biological thing or an effect of an upbringing of several thousand years or so but she surely welcomed it as long as it suited her interests.

She studied her face further. She had always liked her features, her long face with harsh angles, an open forehead, high cheekbones, a characteristic nose with the slightest arc—the most precious feature she had, and full lips with cruel lines drawn into a somewhat big mouth. If everything went according to plan, she was going to lose all of it in less than a month.

Through the course of her erratic life, her face, along with her body, had become her only _self_ and the thought of losing it sometimes became…unbearable. She'd passed the last day more in front of the mirror than inside the bed; checking her features, and thinking. Would she forget how she looked like now after a time? Would the lines on her face be buried in a forgotten place in her mind, as just a memory from the past? She grimaced. Memories were fickle, hardly trustworthy, and far different from what was real. Sometimes she couldn't help but wonder if the memories of her time with Michael had been as good as she remembered, or if she had been as miserable as she had remembered herself to be in Cathleen's company. She scowled, stopping her odd thoughts. This wouldn't do any good. She didn't do sentimental and she had already made up her mind.

When she heard the door open, she schooled herself into a demeanor of indifference and when she came out of the bathroom, her expression was neutral; no trace of exasperation on her face, her practiced stoicism flawless.

Dressed in his elegant designer suit, Bruce Wayne looked flawless too; his face relaxed and at ease, his manner not quite the spoiled filthy rich man covering the tabloids every day, or the gloomily menacing dark figure. He looked middle of the spectrum now; more real and perhaps saner too.

He sat at his self-appointed place beside her bed and announced, "I've decided."

Choosing to settle herself on the couch rather than the bed, she nodded. She stretched her legs out over the luxurious furniture but didn't attempt the cover the places where skin and bruises were left open to his sight. Instead, she raised one leg a little above the other for a better show and perched her elbow on the couch's back to see how he would react.

He didn't. He didn't even glance. Curious. "I'll accept your offer on one condition."

She wanted to sigh heavily but containing herself reconciled with waving a nonchalant hand. '_There is always a price, doll, nothing comes free'_ she reminded herself another of precious lessons of Jason and actually felt content about that prospect; the debts between them finally being settled. "Of course," she said with a small all knowing smile.

"After the operation, you won't go North Africa or the Far East," he paused to look at her, his eyes carefully searching her to gauge a reaction. "You won't go anywhere. You will stay here with me."

Her smile dropped, she looked at him, astonished. A whole minute passed before she was able to speak again. Then she burst out laughing; the sound like little bells ringing. "You're kidding, right?"

He shook his head. "Don't be ridiculous." Face sobered now, she bit off every word.

"If you refuse, I'll send you back to Gordon."

She narrowed her eyes into a challenge, as her tone dropped a tone down, "You wouldn't dare."

He gave her a pointed look as a comeback. It took a second his look sunk in. A second later, she exclaimed, her gaze catching her comically widened eyes in the mirror at the corner. "_He_ can't be your man inside." She lifted her head up toward the ceiling. "He's the Police Commissioner, for god sake."

Bruce shrugged. "We came to a sort of understanding."

"He knows who you are?"

Bruce shook his head.

"And he's still willing to help you after—um—what happened?"

His face wasn't cheerful or anything before, of course, but now it looked like once again carved out stone. "We came to a sort of understanding," he repeated gravely then leaned forward. "Don't look so shocked. Apart from you, the only people who know my secret—"He halted and a pained expression briefly crossed his face, "—are Alfred and Lucius Fox. Fox helps me with the designs and technological equipment but for anything else, I'm entirely dependent on Alfred. I need someone resourceful, smart, and capable; someone who already knows who I am." He looked pointedly at her again.

She smiled, mockingly this time. "That's very—kind way to tell me that you don't trust me on my own."

"Can you blame me?"

Unfortunately, she couldn't. Anything she had planned so far that was related in any way to Bruce Wayne had an annoying habit of getting out of control; especially out of hers. Since the day she had met him, her life had become a pitiful attempt for damage control. She wasn't like this; she was a force of nature; people around her reacted to her, not the other way around.

Then he leaned forward, his eyes fixed on hers, he captured her gaze and spoke, "You called me—asked my help, and I'm offering it to you; _this_ is a bargain, and a fair one."

"What bargain?"

"Your silence and…skills for my money and protection," he answered simply.

She put her feet down on the handmade carpet and stared at the wall. This wasn't her… she was a force of nature… a hurricane… a flood… Yet whenever it came to her versus him, she found herself in a position of a twirling leaf in a vortex, trying desperately to stay above the surface.

* * *

Valerie wasn't a happy individual at the moment, but she didn't let _that_ fact curb her ever-present determination, she never did anyways.

So after Bruce had left her alone with his ridiculous proposal, she had pulled herself out of self-pity and tried to come up with some sort of plan. She had to wait for the operation, and not just for the obvious reasons. There had been good reasons that she chose to operate on LSI Holdings, especially in Gotham; and even without the mess she currently was in, she had more than enough problems to consider. It was high time for a _change_ that would get her a little freedom. She had no desire to live the rest of her life hiding in a hole in some remote place. That would be a crime against humanity.

After the operation, and retrieving her stash from where she hid it the first time she had set foot in Gotham, she could run away; the cache contained an unused identity along with a decently forged passport, several handy tools, a trusty 30mm Glock, spare clothes, and a prepaid phone. It was short in the money department as that had been her main problem lately but in a manor like this she was sure she could find something to get herself on her feet. With a little bit of help, she could alter the passport and ID to her new face until she could get her hands on brand new ones, then she would start anew. The thought calmed her a tad bit more and she started to think about what could be done right then.

Barefoot, she exited the guest room and began snooping. Where were the security cameras? Leaving her image on them wouldn't bother her, it wasn't like that Bruce Wayne would call the police for a burglary complaint, but if he caught her red-handed, trying to steal from him, again, well, _let's not go there_, she suggested to herself, forcing her thoughts to another topic.

Anyone who didn't know that the manor had been newly built wouldn't have believed it and she guessed wouldn't be held up responsible for cursory examination too. Wayne Manor had that peculiar aura that only belonged to very old buildings; crafty, artistic and very intimidating. She remembered reading in the newspapers that it was built again brick by brick in the old manor's fashion. She stood in front of a Friedrich painting at the staircase, which with a closer investigation she appraised as an original one, probably. God, she was always such a mess when it came to evolutions. Normally she wouldn't even bother, she'd always prefer the imitations in any time, less—messy but Bruce Wayne was unlikely the type to own fake paintings.

_Of course… _In a case of urgency, she would… _liberate_ it, but disposing an original painting required time, connections and it was always bound to leave a trace behind. She was sure there must be a hidden safe, with more liquid assets around, so all she had to do was find a way to muck with the security cameras for a window of opportunity then find…a gentle cough interrupted her line of thoughts. A bit surprised, she turned, and saw Bruce's butler.

"You seem to be lost, Miss," he said gently, yet his voice was like steel, no trace of softness underneath. Then she remembered that the man inspecting her carefully was ranked as Batman's number one accomplice. He looked like nothing more than an old gentleman with a heavy British accent but she knew appearances were deceptive.

She decided to play nice. Smiling with her best innocent expression, she shook her head. "No. I was just looking around. You know this is going to be my new _home. _So I thought I'd get my bearings." She turned back to the painting as Alfred joined her at staircase hall. "This is a lovely place that Bruce built for himself. If I didn't know, I wouldn't believe it was newly—"She halted, and turned aside, her eyes gleamed as she asked eagerly. "Did he really burn the house down?"

She remembered reading about it in the papers after she had arrived at Gotham. The press was having a field day; how the billionaire had chased his guests out and burnt his house down in a drunken fit. At that time, it'd looked like something _Brucie_ _Wayne_ could have done for fun, but now she had her doubts, which were sort of confirmed by the stony look Alfred aimed at her. _Ah, appearances how deceptive they could be._ As annoyed as she was to, yet again, realize how easily she ate up the dumbass playboy persona like the rest of mankind, she pushed the annoyance down and kept her face neutral.

"If this manor is going to be really your new _home_—"the butler began, the pressure on the last word revealing without any doubt how he was actually feeling about his employer's decision. "I believe there are things you must know."

She gasped in a feigned show of terror, "Why, _more_ secrets?"

There was no trace of humor in Alfred's expression though. "It wasn't Master Wayne who burnt the manor down. It was a terrorist known as Ra's al Ghul. He was the man behind the fear attack last year. His men burnt the house down and left Master Wayne for dead. I saved him," he added the last part a tad bit proud touching on his tone.

There wasn't much about Bruce Wayne that would surprise her anymore, she had come to accept that, but it still took a few seconds to digest the new information. "Why did he burn it?"

The butler nodded. "Revenge for one thing. He was Master Wayne's old mentor."

She blinked twice. "Ok…I'll shoot: Why was a _terrorist_ Bruce Wayne's old mentor?"

Alfred smiled at her little. "There are things you don't know about Master Wayne."

Too annoyed to press it any longer, she snapped back harshly. "What I know about him was enough to ruin my life. I don't think I want to know any more."

"You've ruined your life all by yourself. Master Wayne didn't do anything except save it, not once but twice, Miss."

She nodded and spoke very slowly, each word stressed to get her message across. "Yes, I've lied, I've blackmailed, I've tried to expose him just for _money_. Yes, I'm a terrible person who uses other people for her own benefits, but at least I don't go killing them when I feel it's justified."

"And are you all right with it? With him being a killer…as justified as it is?" Alfred asked, voice disturbed, eyes searching her.

"Who am I to judge him? I am a liar, a con artist, a common thief. And according to you he is the savior of the mankind."

"But those people who died…?"

She shrugged. "Sometimes we do things we don't want to. We don't mean to. I didn't mean for Danny to die at the crash, despite what he tried to do me. But nevertheless my intentions, he died because of me. Some people deserve what they get, some don't. I don't stress over it."

Alfred's face was still expressionless yet his eyes bore a knowing look, which she didn't like at all. "You are in denial."

"I'm being pragmatic." She turned to leave.

His next words were barely audible, just above a whisper still they were enough to stop her dead in her tracks. "He didn't kill those people."

She turned back to face him. "Pardon me?"

"It wasn't _him_."

Yes, she thought, there wasn't much about Bruce Wayne that would surprise her anymore but every time she was proven wrong. She stared at the older man for a while. "You aren't lying, are you? He really didn't." He shook his head. "Then who was it?" A wrinkle appeared on her brows, "Why—for what purpose Bruce did take the blame on himself?"

"It was Harvey Dent," Alfred answered her question as she sat down on the stairs under the painting. "He did it because that's what Gotham needs him to be."

She shook her head. "I don't-understand."

Alfred settled beside her. "Harvey Dent lost his grip on reality in the explosion which burnt half of his face. But he lost more than that too. The Joker had profited from his weak mental state and encouraged him to revenge his dead fiancée, Rachel Dawes."

The name sounded familiar and she searched through her memory, "The assistant D.A who died in another explosion on the same day?"

The butler nodded. "The Joker had made Batman chose one of them. He'd picked Ms. Dawes's location but it had turned out that the Joker had led him to Harvey Dent on purpose. Commissioner Gordon had gone after Ms. Dawes. Batman could save Harvey Dent but the Commissioner could not." Alfred paused, the expressionless face now full with sorrow. "Mr. Dent thought he was the only one who had lost everything but he was not. Master Wayne lost something very close to him that day too."

She looked at him questionably. "Ms. Dawes. She was Master Wayne's childhood friend, and—"he stopped, unable to finish.

"Did he love her?" she asked, sensing the cause of his distress.

He nodded. "Quite much, I am afraid. He'd told her about Batman."

"Then she went and got engaged to Dent…" she commented with a soft half-laugh, nodding a little, "_Tragic_."

"I believe—"Butler chose his words carefully, giving her a disapproving hard look. "Ms. Dawes understood why Gotham needs Batman and she realized that the boy she loved had simply…evolved into something else. They grew apart and a few months later she started to see Harvey Dent."

She smiled faintly. Geometry wasn't one of her strongest fortes but she knew a love triangle when she saw it; she knew the sums of all the interior angles; who sacrificed, who won, and who lost. "Let me guess…And Bruce still pined over her?"

Alfred nodded, she rolled her eyes. "What happened after Dawes died?"

"When the Joker had threatened to bomb one of the hospitals—"She stiffened, and looked at him sharply. "—Harvey Dent was in Gotham General. It's our belief that the Joker had visited him there and then Mr. Dent disappeared."

"Then he started to kill the dirty cops who had given them over to Maroni's men for the Joker's plan. Then for the last, he took Commissioner Gordon's family hostage to take revenge for Ms. Dawes' death. When he was about to kill the Commissioner's little boy, Master Wayne threw himself at him, and they both fell to ground. With Harvey Dent dead, Master Wayne decided to take the blame for the murders on himself."

She frowned. "Why?"

"Because Gotham needs her White Knight. In their eyes, the Joker lost. So they can still have hope."

"What Gotham needs is a wakeup call and to stop wishing for heroes."

"Batman's not a hero. He's _more_."

Alfred said it in a dedicated tone and she started to wonder about what should have worried her long ago. She turned aside to look at directly his eyes. "Why are you telling me this?"

The butler didn't hesitate. "For some reasons, he believes in you. He thinks you have some...contributions to make, and for this he's willing to take a chance on you. I've wanted you know him, _really_ him."

In other words, he didn't want her to disappoint his dear Bruce Wayne. Because… then it hit her with the subtlety of truck. She laughed out. "So _that's_ why he wants to keep me around?" Her bewilderment fading, she felt herself getting furious for being treated like a school project. "The Joker was able to bring the White Knight down to his level, so let's try to bring the Wicked Witch of the West up to ours? Well, sorry to disappoint, but I don't need any saving."

"Then why are you still here?"

Unfortunately, for that, she didn't have an answer, other than that she had nowhere else to go—_not yet_—and she didn't want to say that to him. So instead, with a hard glare, she stood up and left.

* * *

He was sitting in his usual spot in the guest room and she was watching the storm outside, her back to him. They were in silence. She had expected him to question her about the doctor she had mentioned earlier but he didn't, instead settled into watching her silently. She didn't know what to do with the new secret. Logically it shouldn't have worried her that much, but yet it did. And she wasn't sure what that meant either. He didn't kill those people, and it changed things.

"Alfred told me what happened on the day Harvey Dent died," she declared then calmly.

"And he _told_ me he had told you."

So that was the reason why he was watching her with a keen interest, like that figurative bug under that figurative microscope. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't think it was relevant."

She let out a choked, humorless laugh. _Of course…_"Are you going out tonight too?" she asked. What she really wanted to ask was that 'Are you going to out tonight, in that storm, to get yourself killed for people who hate your guts so that they could continue to waste away their pitiful lives with eased conscience, not stopping to ponder what was really going on in this fucking planet even for the tiniest of seconds?' but she didn't.

In the reflection on the window, she saw him nodding. "Yes. But further in the night. I have a fundraiser to attend to first."

To play the fool of the town…"Why are you doing this?"

She hadn't thought she really cared; that was his life, his choice, his problem but somehow the question popped out of her mouth, and she didn't really expect him to answer her inquiry but for unknown reasons he did, "I can't not."

Not talking further, she gulped down a lump her throat. When she closed her eyes, she sensed a drill, that familiar nameless ache, boring its way through her temples. She rested her forehead on the window. She wanted to run away, far away but she felt she didn't have the energy to even move her finger. She stayed there, forehead resting on the window, watching the storm long after he left the room.

She studied her reflection in the window. Subject: Caucasian woman, in her early thirties; status: in two words, fucked-up.

This, whatever it was, had to stop.

* * *

Later that night, just before the dawn, when Bruce finally came back to his room, he found her there; already in his bed. His head bowed, tired beyond measure, he hadn't noticed her at first, and had walked into the middle of his room. There he stood; his brows pulled into a scowl. He didn't need to deal with it. He so didn't need to deal with it, not now. "What are you doing here?"

She looked at him, tilting her head to side. "Isn't it clear, Bruce?"

"No."

"Your observation skills worry me," she mouthed exaggeratedly and posed on the satin linen invitingly, her upper body rested on her elbow propping her on her side, while one leg arched above the other, then her gaze found his, and she said openly, "I want you."

He stared at her. Her body was still covered with slashes and bruises yet she didn't look self-conscious, instead she looked like she was on pedestal. She was wearing white cotton undergarments, more practical than sexy as they were Alfred's purchases but the effects were still the same.

He dropped his head, thinking how much it must have pained her rib even to stay in that position and went to his buffet. He pulled out a Perrier. What he really would've liked to have was a glass of scotch but he didn't give into his desire. "Go back to your room," he said, and added with a somewhat shy look. "Please."

"_Come-on_—"she exclaimed, "We know each other's deepest secrets." She turned fully aside and lifted her body up on all fours. Bruce lifted his head to stare at her again. "This—thing between us…" she paused, and crawled to the edge of the bed on all fours, toward him, "…some may even find it rather _romantic_." The last word rolled over her tongue as a silky, throaty, promising purr, and he wouldn't even have suspected a bare mention of _romantic_ could sound that much related solely to sex. And that thought sobered him.

"Do I look like someone romantic?" he rasped out in a low tone, throwing at her a dark stare.

He looked like someone rather into dramatics, truth to be told. She swung her legs over the side of bed; her brows wrinkled as she asked, "Do I really look repulsive with bruises?"

Startled with her sudden question, he scowled. "No—it's not about the bruises."

One eyebrow arched. "You mean it's about me?"

He looked at her, leaning on the buffet. "You don't need to do this, not with me." He didn't clarify what he meant by _this_ and he did not need to. It had been a long day and a _longer _night and he was more than tired. He should have already in his bed, preparing for another restless night, torturing his conscience with dreams of Rachel, and getting a few precious minutes of sleep when his overwhelmed mind finally let his exhausted body rest. He just didn't need to deal with this kind of obstruction too.

Not for the first time, he wished Alfred hadn't told her anything. He could understand what Alfred was trying to do…but she was getting out of control. Too much pressure, she would be broken. Or worse she would break someone else.

Her face was cold now, and for a second or so he thought she was going to hit him. But it passed quickly and as her face relaxed once again, she lifted one shoulder carelessly, "Can't blame a girl for trying."

She stood up, and put her creamy robe on. She walked toward him and stopped only when there were a few inches between them. "Ok. No more funny stuff." She came closer, infiltrated his personal space, and moistened her lips before she started to talk once again. "But there is so much tension going between us." She was a good head shorter than him so she had to tilt her head up to give him a suggestive smile, as a finger raised over his chest to play with his polo shirt's top button. "And I can't think a better way of letting off some… steam."

He grabbed her wrist and twisted her hand off him. "_No,_" he growled out, dragged her toward the door, and she let him. When they were at the door, he opened it, pushed her out.

He closed the door.

He heard her taunting voice with her mocking laughter from the other side, "Fuck yourself, Bruce Wayne. Or as in your case, should I say your hand?"

The following morning before he was out of the manor she was already above the stairs, leaning forward over the rails, one hand rested under her chin, looking at him, and smiling a cat-smug smile. When he glowered at her, she waved coyly.

* * *

Boy was a sly, sleek, tall figure with handsome features, and he was in last months of his twenties, so close to thirty. His hair was a lustrous black; his face wasn't sickly pale nor it was tanned or reddened; his hands were long and strong, calloused around the palms but they were artist's hands, born to create; his eyes were like coals, closed off but glinting and his lips seemed to be ready to tilt up at any second with mirth. Boy was a cool young man, from the time-worn leather jacket to the Luckies between his long fingers. His smooth manners, that quirky demeanor that could be passed off as a shy wittiness at first, but with a closer look—if he gave any person that chance—it would be seen that underneath it hid a carefully calculated reserved personality. Boy wasn't simply the sort of man who could say aloud anything he knew, or thought, or believed.

He took a drag of his cigarette and watched his friends come into bunker. First came Bastard then Bubble Gum, his gum in his mouth, chewing. Like usual, they were arguing over something; loud words coming out their mouths, Bubble Gum cursing colorfully, Bastard calling him 'dolt.' The scene brought him an undeniable sense of tranquility, a familiarity, and he closed his eyes, smiled a little smile.

"My friends, my dear friends," he said with closed eyes, then opened them. "Did you bring the list?"

"Yeah," Bastard answered, his gaze skipping towards Bubble Gum, "this dolt was gonna screw it up, though, he was about to start beat—"

Bubble Gum popped out his chewing gum, easing off a shoulder, "That motherfucker had it—"

"Aiiii, you dolt—you dolt—he's our—"

"My friends," he interrupted, smiling, and signaled them, "List, please."

Another sound of pop cracked up in silence as Boy studied the list, memorizing each name, the words scorched into his mind, his brows furrowed. Each name, each life… He'd expected pain, a burning ghostly pain, running through his body, and he was slightly disturbed by the lack of it. But he was comforted too, each name, each life…and each of them, each of them was going to pay. It wasn't a matter of question, it was just a matter of decision; how? How exactly?

Then he smiled, little, gently; it wasn't a matter of decision, no, it wasn't, not anymore. No one could say he hadn't tried. He stood up. Bastard looked at him, suddenly, feet disturbing the small dirty spot on the pavement.

Bubble Gum said slowly—as was his way of talking when he wasn't cursing loudly colorfully— each word coming out with deliberate thoughtfulness, "Motherfucker, he said they didn't know, he said if they had known…" he paused, "I broke his nose—motherfucker…"

Boy smiled, Bastard said dolt affectionately, Bubble Gum popped out his gum, and for one moment, Boy looked at them, treasured the moment, and hid it alongside the lost memories of his childhood. He started to walk out.

Soon, Boy was going to die, cease to exist, and from his ashes, another man was going to be reborn. Just one thing though, only one thing remained, he couldn't end before seeing the old man again.

Outside the chilled, depressed wind ran over his face, and he looked up at the pale November sun. The last days of autumn were fading. Icy, cold winter wasn't a good time for funerals. He would have to wait until summer then, and his birthday was approaching.

* * *

The man was old, ancient, and thin; his eyes sunken, his skin drawn out horrifically over his cheekbones, the color of his rough face turned ashen. His hands shook as he waved Boy inside, a hand rolled joint dangling between his aged fingers. He hadn't changed at all.

"Come on inside, boy, it's going to be cold today," he nodded, "yes, yes, close the door too." He paused, "winter is at our doors."

He offered his cigar toward Boy. Boy shook his head, sniffing; showed him the cigarette between his fingers, and asked, "Still growing them?"

He stood up with trembling legs and waved his hand to the left side, and pots full of Cannabis. "Can't trust those bastards nowadays, you'd never know what shit they sell you," he said. Behind the pots, below the windows, Boy saw the ground of the cemetery; haunted, desolate, left to be forgotten, much like its caretaker.

He pressed his cigarette down into an old astray, and the old caretaker approached closer. "Come on, let old man see you better… these eyes aren't working properly any more…" He put his hands on Boy's smooth face, cradling it, the smoke of his cigar misting over his eyes. "Boy…you grew up old." Boy smiled a little smile, and his gaze flicked towards the simple coffin waiting just outside of the door.

"New arrival?"

Lowering his hands down, his ancient eyes flicked towards it. "Poor fellow, they brought him this morning; found dead in a park last night; froze to death." He let out an ancient sigh. "Winter is coming."

Boy walked out the cot and stopped beside the coffin. Crouching beside it, he opened the lid. An eighteenish, young face, purple and without any burial make-up looked back at him. "He looks young."

The old man drew in deep breath from joint. "The good die young, papa used to say." He took another breath. "Remember how to dig a grave?"

Boy smiled a little smile and stood up. He took out his jacket. The caretaker fixed a warning finger at him. "Remember six feet deep," he said as Boy picked up a shovel from where it had been resting along the wall. "Or else the dead will be coming up in the first rain." There were no burial vaults, no concrete lid for the homeless cemetery in Gotham; merely six feet under, a grave newly dug, unconsecrated. "Then the dead will be on your neck in the afterlife, papa always said."

Boy stabbed the shovel into the earth, and lifted his head upward toward Gotham sky. An ordinary November day, chilly and depressing, no, it wasn't a good day for a funeral, yet people died all the time.

* * *

"A day remained from summer," the one and only college dropout of Gotham PD Pamela Isley said, with melancholy reminiscent one of the true tragic characters of Shakespeare's plays from the back seat of their old squad car and then continued in more normal tone. "And yesterday I was just this close to get my ass frozen off on the shift. Global warming—"

The Major Detective Thomas Burke, who had sensed where the conversation was leading with dread, cut off her next words, "—just doesn't interest me." He threw a dirty look at his redheaded co-worker in the visor mirror. "Polar bears should worry about it." Detective Thomas Burke, known generally to the department as Yogi Bear—at least behind his back—was six feet and three inches tall, close to two hundred pounds and had the sentimentality of a log.

Pamela sent him a glare from the back seat. As a college flunky and _woman,_ she was well accustomed to being treated as if she were a rookie on her first day on the force—even though she was about to finish her second year—but she wasn't going to let Burke put her off of her case this time, as Pamela had been studying Environmental Chemistry before she had to drop out of college, and still thought of the subject as somewhat her specialty. She opened her mouth to talk back, to dutifully remind her dick of a co-worker about some statistical information, and the stunning fact that last summer there had been snow in the Arabian deserts, but before she could say any of those things, Burke beat her to it.

"Cut it out." His left hand found a muffin on his side and tore open the package, and threw it in his mouth in one piece. "Ten years ago all you were saying 'Ozone bore'," his words muffled out while chewing "now you stitched it up back and started with global warming."

Lt. Detective Harvey Bullock, the chief of Homicide Division, took a deep breath out of his long red Marlboro, puffed it out of his open passenger side window, and wished to be someplace else. He was about to cut off the pointless bickering with a terse 'enough' when the police radio burst into static then an unemotional voice paged in. "179-1. All available units please report to Durkheim Street. Repeat, 179-1."

Armed conflict. Within seconds, Burke made an unbelievable turn without slowing down, all while muttering under his breath. "Just for once, just for once, could one report come in while we're heading the right direction, huh, is that too much to ask?" He spun the wheel to the left and pulled emergency brake. The back of the car made an incredible spin and Burke turned the wheel to the opposite side, pulling the car back on the road. It looked like a V-turn more than a U and if it had been anyone else, the back of the car would have stayed on curb. But Burke's father was a retired bus driver, and he'd always claimed he learned how to drive with a bus at age six.

Bullock glanced at his watch; 23:12. They had been turning back from another crime scene and he had been hoping to drop by Johnny's for a quick fix before he would call it a night. No such luck tonight though, he thought, as he put the blue light on the top of the car with a simple flick of his hand.

The entrance to Durkheim Street was closed by a new construction site, as was every street in Gotham nowadays. The Joker had left his imprints deeply on the city and the Mayor was more than determined to wipe them out before election time came again. Hence, many new construction sites; parks, memorials, statues, and renovations, and since he was into business, he had also taken the liberty of launching a renewal program for the metro line, the highway, and the bridges. These days, all of Gotham seemed more or less to be a big excavation site rather than an old, well-known, well-founded city.

Burke proved he was as uninterested in traffic signs as he was in global warming, plowing down a sign that declared in big red letters, "No Vehicles." He reached for the radio, "Station, this is 1870."

"1870, this is station, go ahead."

"Station, we're responding to emergency through the pond. Tell MCU to come from the direction of the old amusement park."

There was static then the dispatch's confused voice spoke again. "1870, negative, what pond?"

"Station, what pond, what? Don't you know the pond people hang out at, drinking, on the corner of Durkheim and Narrows?"

"1870, that pond is long gone, don't you know, they're filling in it to make _another_ monument in memory of Harvey Dent."

Bullock puffed out another lungful of smoke and suppressed the urge to roll his eyes, while his ears picked up gun fire. Burke stepped on the gas and passed the aforementioned artificial empty pond with disinterested eyes. "Station, cut it out," he barked out, "just tell MCU we're waiting for them to come from the amusement park, out."

Then finally Burke remembered that there was also a brake pedal under his feet and stomped on it; the car slid, tires screeching and stopped just in the right place, at the middle of the dispute. With sudden movement, Bullock's head collided with the windshield, and finally he grunted out a terse 'easy'.

Burke's worried glance found him in an instant. "You okay, chief?"

"Don't talk nonsense," he snapped as he stepped out of the car. He glanced down at his wrist; 23:18, not bad.

Burke got out of the car too, called for his co-worker, who bent down to hide behind half a sculpture. The sides of the sculpture were dressed up with graffiti from Gotham's Rogues, and according to the metal label on it, the artist who had stolen from the stone was some Italian bitch.

"Ho, Fields, what's this about?" Burke asked, approaching him, and finding cover behind another set of stone.

Charlie Fields, who—behind his back—was known on the Force as Vulture, had of course arrived before anyone else could. A man simply couldn't get Vulture as nickname for just any reason. In his twelfth year at Homicide, Bullock had yet to arrive at a crime scene before the roguish man.

Glancing backwards, Fields shrugged, "The Russians and the Irish."

Burke narrowed his eyes. "And what are you doing here, exactly?" His lack of interest for the living was a common knowledge on the force.

He shrugged again. "They bring big toys; there will be casualties."

Bullock nodded sharply. His gaze rapidly took everything in, a small crowd had already gathered around the premises and he had no time to deal with them. Fucking Gotham, fucking mobs, fucking gangs, fucking city. All he wanted to—he took another drag on his cigarette.

A few feet away from where he stood, a food vendor was selling his falafel sandwiches as if an armed conflict just a few meters from him was an everyday occurrence. Upon seeing the detectives, the man approached them carefully together with his friend. "These sons of bitches are not giving us a moment of reprise, Det.," he commented eagerly, assuming his rank incorrectly. "The Irish took Lorenzo's last month and the Russians started to take Big Chucks' this, and two days ago as a joint venture, they beat two of Derrick's men pretty badly—"

His friend beside him scoffed derisively. "Derrick had it coming, I mean, racketeering and such—"

"Don't talk about Derrick like that," the food seller contradicted his friend fast, affronted. "Last year when my boy had gotten into the hospital, he paid the bills. He can get a little rough sometimes, but at his core, he's a good fellow."

His friend was about to answer about that but before he could do so Bullock interrupted him. "You two get out of my sight, now," he hissed out, "and find some cover, for god's sake." Twelve years in Homicide, eight of them as chief, countless dead bodies, and countless killers and two years since that day, and sometimes he still couldn't understand people. He turned to face Fields. "Positions?"

"The Russian group is holding the street's exit and the Irish are stationed at the opening to the Narrows," he summarized briefly, also naming the guns they were carrying. "When MCU comes from the amusement park side, they will have to retreat."

Burke nodded. "And they'd better hurry." He paused, "Ok. Plans?" he asked looking at his chief.

"We wait for MCU and the quick response team," Bullock said flatly. He had no desire to put his team into the crossfire without any back up. The sons of bitches could riddle themselves with holes for all he cared. His team's eyes were riveted in horror to something behind him, just over his shoulder. He whirled around to find a young girl, whose screams from her open mouth were muffled under the gunshots, running towards them, and as she tried to get away from the line of fire, she just fell into the middle of it.

Every one of them raised their guns simultaneously, and ran toward her. "On the ground," Burke shouted at the top of his voice, "Down."

With her red coat, it was _her_. No, it wasn't. _Your mind is playing games with you again_, Bullock said to himself. He closed his eyes, opened them. Still her. He ran faster, into the assault.

Burke sprinted after him, yelling, "Damn it, chief—"but he didn't stop. It was _her_. A bullet grazed towards Burke's arm, and he lowered it, screaming.

"Tommy—"Only then did Bullock stop. The girl stopped dead in her steps upon seeing them, too shocked to follow Burke's command. Then everything happened at once: a black figure, clad in familiar heavy armor, fell on her out of blue, rolling both bodies over the sallow grass; MCU came into view from the amusement park, pressing on; and then Batman was gone as quickly as he had appeared, leaving the girl, disheveled but unharmed.

Bullock snapped out of it, his temples throbbing, his body aching, he started to run to take a formation, pulling Burke out of the way.

Hiding behind his food stall, the vendor nudged his friend. "Did you get it, man, did you take it? We put it on YouTube tonight."

* * *

**A/N: **_The Good Die Young, is an old British crime thriller fim, a Scorpion song, and there is a Billy Joel song to as 'Only the Good Die Young.'_

_And winter is coming, is a catch phrase from Games of Thrones._


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four:**

* * *

Over the next three weeks, her presence in Bruce's study became almost a constant one. So was finding her sprawled out over his table or sofa or any other suitable furniture that consisted of necessary space. She had a thing for appearances, and Bruce was sure she was doing it on purpose, just to get a rise out of him. It had become a sort of game to her, one which he wasn't planning on playing.

Today she had settled herself on his desk, keyboard and computer pushed to the side so she had ample room to lounge on her stomach. She paged through _Vogue_, her legs swaying in the air rhythmically. Eyes focused on magazine, she didn't acknowledge his arrival; in return he shoved her off the table a little.

She gave out a little yelp as she, along with her magazine, slid across the surface, but she regained her balance at the last minute before she fell on her ass. Hands gripping the edge tightly, she swung herself over the side of the table, and threw a pouting glance down at the fallen Vogue. "I was reading."

"I _need_ my desk."

She eased out an exaggerated huff. "I need your opinion on something." She bent down to reach—not neglecting to flash a handsome amount of cleavage in the process—and showed him a picture of posing models. Her polished nail pointed one of the models. "Do you think her nose would look good on me? Or—"she flipped through pages and found another blonde, "or would this one be better?" She brought the folded magazine over the half of her face. "Alfred couldn't pick one."

He stared at her, she grinned back at him; exaggerated, facetious, irrationally daring, and somewhere along the way, it had become their routine. He gave her another look then said dismissively to avoid any further rambling as he turned back to his computer, "First one."

She hopped down, the wolfish grin growing wider. "Yes, I do believe so. I'll go and let Alfred know that _you_ decided on one."

Ten minutes later, Alfred came with his evening meal in his hand. "Valerie told me you picked a _nose_ for her," he commented derisively.

Bruce made a nonchalant noise.

"She will grow out of it, sir, eventually," Alfred assured him.

Bruce nodded. He was depending on it. He had found it slightly funny at first, but now that slight part was growing thin.

"I suppose it's her way of dealing with pressure," Alfred commented further, and Bruce nodded again. He already _knew_ that, but it didn't make any difference. It was an annoying habit, and a tiresome distraction.

"Did you purchase the items she required?"

This time it was Alfred's turn to nod gravely. She had said she would need a change of clothing, and one look to the list she had made had been enough for Bruce to gather why she had called it a change. Most of the requested clothes included leather; leggings, miniskirts, super miniskirts, short dresses, super short dresses, jackets, and shoes; _lots of it_. She wanted a hair straightener and a curler as well, and a lot of cosmetics.

He had stared at her when she handed him the list but she had shrugged off. "I can't go back to my old buddies in these rags," she had said, disgustingly pointing at the simple jeans she had been wearing. "Whoever said 'beauty is only skin deep' was onlylying."

Before his very eyes, Bruce had concluded, she was molding herself into another identity. She joined him at the table while he was having his dinner, and stole one of his French fries. "Did you arrange the transportation details to Cork?" she inquired, while munching the fry.

"Yes, everything is settled. We'll leave in two days. He paused to search her eyes. "Are you really sure you can find that doctor?"

Licking the oil off her forefinger, she stopped and turned her gaze away. Like her presence, Bruce had become accustomed to her body language too. Hesitation was bad news. "Well, when I saw him last, he was there."

"When was that time?"

Another hesitation, before she spoke fast, "A couple of years ago."

Slowly he set his fork down on the table. "A couple of years ago…" he repeated slowly, "You don't have any idea where he is, do you?"

She crossed her arms defensively. "If you happen to know a plastic surgeon that could do such a surgery off the books, well, be my guest." She raised one brow, and waited for him. He didn't speak. "Since you apparently _don't_—"

"I can find one."

An expression of utter dread, horror, shock appeared on her face at the same. "_Find_ _one_?" she seethed out. "We're talking about _my face_ here. I can't trust that with any second rate butcher who barely knows how to snitch a bullet wound back!"

"And you trust your guy?"

She hesitated again for a second, then slowly said, "I can trust him—being—_him." _She gave him a look. "Don't worry, Bruce, I know how to deal with Christian."

"And if he isn't in Cork?"

"Then I guess I'll ask around."

His tone was dangerous now, "You are wanted by GCPD, FBI, and Interpol with a red notice. You can't go and _ask around_."

"_My life_ is at stake here, Bruce Wayne," she snapped harshly. "Do you really think that I will go and chat with people who keep track of Interpol red notices?" Frankly, she was well aware of the dangers posed by returning to Cork, more than he knew, but she wasn't going to have him question her decisions. Damn it, it was her life, her neck she was risking, not the other way around. "They're mostly just local gangs, small time stuff."

"They might have heard of what happened in Gotham."

"I know this may come as a shock to you, darling, but not every one's life revolves around Gotham," she shot back dryly and wrinkled her nose. "Besides we shouldn't speculate for naught. With a little turn of fate, we might even find our good doctor without any problem."

* * *

They didn't. And Bruce barely held back his urge to say 'I told you so.' The motel room Alfred had arranged for them couldn't be called decent by any measure—stale air, broken furniture, dim light coming from a lone lamp, and filthy walls with peeling paint. Bruce had seen worse.

Already faded bruises hid completely by the miracle of concealer and foundation, tilted eyes made misty by eye shadow, heavy eye-liner, a massive amount of mascara, and dark leather pants wrapping her legs like a second skin, Valerie looked light-years away from the shivering wretch he'd pulled from the warehouse only weeks ago. She sat on the bed deep in thought, her eyes fixed on the wall ahead, her mouth turned down in a scowl. Then in a sudden whirl of leather, she was on her feet. "All right…first things first. I need to make rounds."

"I'm coming with you."

"No, you're not," she replied flatly.

"I wasn't asking your permission. I speak, and you follow my word," he said with a hard stare to remind her that he was in charge. That couldn't, would not ever, be compromised.

She was a smart girl, Bruce already knew. She knew when to retreat. Nodding curtly, she backpedalled. "They probably don't know where Gotham is, but they might recognize Bruce Wayne's famous features," she said apologetically. "Be reasonable. I can't take you with me."

"I don't like it," Bruce growled out.

She shrugged and went to mirror to apply more blood red lipstick to her already crimson lips. "Well, honestly? I'm not a fan of it either." She checked her appearance, straightened her black leather jacket, yanked her already deep cleavage baring blouse lower and tossed her hair. She then turned around, put a hand on her hip, and posed for him. "How do I look?"

Unstable, dangerous…wild, Bruce thought. "Nice," he said out loud.

She made a face. "Not quite what I was going for."

He smiled at her falsely and fished out a small tracking device from his pocket. He tossed it to her. She caught it in midair and arched an eyebrow. "Is this really necessary?"

"You need to ask?"

She gave him a filthy look in response. Not averting her gaze from him, she dropped the device inside her cleavage. "Happy?"

No, he wasn't, but he was slowly getting there. He offered her another small item.

She studied the wireless and saw the Wayne Tech logo printed on the bottom of it. It seemed like one of those new 'advancements' that Fox worked on. She pushed it into her ear and threw a mocking smile at Alfred who was watching the scene carefully from the corner of the room. "Take care of him for me, will you, darling?" She winked at the older man, and walked out of the room.

* * *

Bruce sat next to Alfred on the small round table. In front of him, his laptop was monitoring her motions, and her voice in his ear was coming in loud and clear. So far everything seemed to be going all right, yet one couldn't decipher that by looking at his face.

He was tense, exasperated, and most of all, he was forced to stand by. He didn't like it, not one bit. "Felicia Bale as I live and breathe—"A greasy voice said into his earpiece and Bruce realized she had finally made it to her contact. "I never thought you'd dare to show your face around here again."

"Sean—you know me, never learn my lessons." Bruce heard her voice became tauntingly silky, and much more sensual than Valerie's. It also bore a rich Irish accent, he noticed. Her transformation into another character was complete. "Poor boy, still licking his wounds, isn't he?" she purred, mocking, and from the line came the sounds of her amused laughter over stretching leather.

Bruce scowled, thinking who that 'he' might be.

"What'd ye think?"

A dramatic sigh rang loudly in his ear, "Oh…he so loves to be dramatic," then another laugh, "But you know me and men—"

"One goes another comes…?" Sean answered dryly.

"Sometimes one comes _before_ the other goes too," she muttered nonchalantly in an airy voice as Bruce stared at the screen then she exclaimed, "_Come on_, give this bird a peck."

There was a loud groan from Sean, and again muffled leather sounds as—he expected—she kissed him soundly. He wished he had given her a wireless camera too as Sean laughed out, "You must have missed me a great deal."

She laughed. "Well my darling, no one teaches me how to fix a Molotov from random drinks anymore," she said, then added lusciously, "But don't you worry; you were always in my—_dreams_."

Bruce cast a glance to Alfred. The older man's face was closed off. Sean laughed again but after a second, he sobered. "All right, Felicia. What do you want?" his voice was cold now, "Assuming you haven't already stolen it from me?"

_Felicia_ exclaimed, shocked and affronted, "I would never."

"Oh, you would _always,_" he sneered back then repeated. "What do you want?"

"I'm looking for a little information—"she paused, voice now precise and into business, "about one of our _mutual_ friends. My dear doctor…any information you could give me would be much appreciated."

Sean let out a mocking gasp, "Really?"

"Ok…here's the thing." There were sounds of leather again and he suspected she was making gestures with her hands. "I'm working on behalf of someone—who likes his privacy very much, and who is very rich, very gullible, and also in a dire need of a good doctor." She dropped her voice into a tone that was very convincing, throaty and deliberate. "Give us something, anything, and he will make it very much worth your while."

There was an exaggerated scoff. "You know, I've heard that before." Another pause over the static then Sean hissed, "Do you remember—that necklace? The priceless heirloom of House of Medicii?"

Valerie inhaled sharply in his ear. "I may have overstated its value slightly."

"_Slightly_?" Sean's voice grew in a pitch higher. "Try again with _worthless_."

"Huh, you're one to talk? Remember that _priceless_ papyrus of the Goddess Sekhmet that turned out to be nothing more than a _worthless_ piece of sheet with lots of scratches and pretty colors with cute cats?" There was a round of leather sounds again as she continued. "So we conned each other. But it was nothing _personal_."

There was a long pause, and then Sean's hesitant voice said, "For my fee as Christian's whereabouts, I might be willing to take that _worthless piece of sheet _back."

"Why?" her tone dropped in suspicion. "What's your angle?"

"You know, to make things straight," he bluntly lied.

Bruce started to get worried, and apparently so did Valerie. "Tell me where Christian is and I will pay you a great deal of money." There was silence again before Valerie's now animated voice said, "Ok. Try this. I'm wondering how much Ronnie might be interested in knowing how much you've been skimming off his goodies."

Sean laughed loudly. "Oh, that was good. Ronnie swore, and I quote, that next time he saw you, he'd put a bullet in that lying face of yours." He made a noise. "Yes, he does love to be dramatic. So, I don't recommend you to run back to your old lover. Bring me back that script, Felicia, and I'll give you Christian's whereabouts."

"Why?" she asked again. "What's your angle?"

"Oh, dear, you don't need to know that."

"Be realistic, _darling_. The papyrus is gone. And there is no way I can get it back."

"Then I'm so sorry that you will go back to your new boyfriend with empty hands. No script…no deal."

"Sean, I like you_ way better _in my dreams."

* * *

An hour later, she was pacing through their small motel room, her thick six inch heels clicking on the bare floor rhythmically. "That scheming, slithering, heap of miserable greed! I'll make him—"Bruce made a noise through his noise and she stopped and looked at him in wonder as if she just remembered she had any company.

But she was in no mood to play nice. "_What?"_

"What happened to the script?"

She ignored his question and resumed her pacing. "We just need to find out why he suddenly needs that worthless piece of sheet. I mean, why would anyone want something like this?"

A hard callous hand reached for her, gripping her upper arm tightly and twirled her around. Bruce roughly pulled her closer, stopping only when they were a few inches apart. He lowered his voice half an octave before rasping out, "Do you know where it is?"

Taken aback with his changed demeanor, she straightened back and looked at him in surprise. Over the course of the last three weeks she'd very unwisely forgotten who he was in reality. Deep down, he was still that—thing, Batman, and knowing his deepest secrets, despite of his wacky trust in her, apparently didn't change that fact. "In some museum in Egypt," she admitted reluctantly.

He bowed his head, released his grip on her and turned to Alfred. "How long will it take to arrange a flight to Egypt?"

"This is not a good idea," she said in response.

* * *

"This is _so_ not a good idea," Arms crossed under her chest, Valerie told him begrudgingly for at least the tenth time in the past hour. He scarcely held himself back from growling at her. He was getting restless, and could barely keep his anger at bay, but she didn't seem to be aware of it.

This trip had only supposed to be a recon mission to find the doctor, talk about the payment and operation conditions to fix a date. Now three days away from Gotham, he was frustrated, on the edge of a cliff, ready to roll over and end up shattered in the sand. He didn't want that happen. Gotham needed him, and he had hindered to help her for three days.

He let himself a frustrated sigh. Even after Joker had ceased to be a threat, in his padded cell with his straightjacket, and the big bosses were behind bars for the time being, his job seemed to be as demanding as ever. The mob still continued to jostle each other, trying to seize control, and each single-mindedly determined to get it into their hands. And every time, Batman had been there to stop them at the last minute, and every time, that last minute was growing a hair-breadth shorter than before, and each time it was growing a little harder; protecting civilians, running from Gotham PD, and all while trying to do his duty.

He remembered the girl from days ago, his jaw clenching. If he had been just _one_ second later, the young girl would have been dead.

Three days…

He didn't plan on it to take so long but he hadn't planned making a jolly trip around the globe after her either. Crossing over country borders undetected was a tiresome job, especially when you were traveling with someone who was on Interpol's red list.

He looked at the old city stretching before him.

Cairo used to be _more_. When Bruce had seen the country for the first time, he had been struck with the novelty of its mystical charms, and the beauty of its countless years of history. Now it seemed less; maybe because of the steady line of tourists coming to see the riches of east, modern people chasing after a sort of wonder, and enlightenment; a meaning to their empty life—or maybe it was because of him. He wasn't one of them anymore. Unlike the first time, he was here with a purpose, and with a clear goal. He wasn't the same young man who had come here years ago; he had changed and it was one of those times he felt it strongly deep inside. He didn't let nostalgia stray him off his path though. He planned meticulously in his mind every step, every precaution, so when the time arrived, he was going to be fully prepared.

He wasn't going to be forced to stay behind this time.

Beside him, Valerie had gone quiet at last, deep in thought. "I'll need another change of clothes," she stated after a while.

He dropped his head but refused to roll his eyes.

* * *

The museum rose up from the desert on the far edge of the city, a monument of steps and stone terraces, like countless sacred altars of an ancient world. Beyond the history, though, beyond its beauty, Bruce couldn't see anything that would separate it from the many others of its kind. The brown stone was hardy under his feet and the desert wind was cool against his skin, and despite himself, a calmness settled over him and he remembered his time in a places like this, years ago. There was something profound about the East that calmed his senses every time, a feeling of divinity running through his battered body, even though he wasn't a religious person, new age, old age or conservative alike.

His gaze flicked toward to the woman beside him, who looked like some sort of modern female Indiana Jones, in khaki pants with a rolled up cotton cream shirt, in light but warm linen for the occasional cold snaps of the climate. It didn't seem like she was admiring herself though. There was a scowl between her brows as she stared at the desert, her mind lost in thought. What she was thinking was anyone's guess. He'd insisted that he was going to come with her this time and that apparently had upset her to this state. He wondered briefly if she was planning to pull one of her schemes on him. He shook his head instantly; no he wasn't going to get to there. He'd decided to trust her and he would trust her no matter what, yet the thought of secretly placing another tracking device on her emerged. He could be trusting but that didn't meant he had to be uninformed.

Suddenly she took a step back and nudged him at his side with her elbow. "Come on, let's find my professor," she said, her voice bearing a soft British accent, the last syllables rolling over her tongue, any trace of pensiveness replaced by a quite chirpy lilt. "I've been _dying_ to have a good, long chat over some dusty old piece of sheet." She strode down inside with a hasty pace as Bruce stared at her back. It was useless. He was never going to understand her.

She followed a long, dim narrow corridor and approached the room at the far side. She halted in front of the wooden door, knocked once and tried the door. It was open so she didn't waste any more time, and strode inside, with him at her heels. A bald, dark faced man in his late forties sat behind a simple wooden desk, thick books, notebooks, and scrolls scattered around him; the tools of his craft. Seeing her approach, the man lifted his head up from the notebook he was highlighting and a look of puzzlement appeared on his features before quickly disappearing.

"Morning, Professor Yorke," she greeted the scholar with a low voice.

"A pleasant morning to you, Doctor Bale." He paused a second and looked at Bruce. There wasn't any trace of recognition on his face. "I hope you are well. It has been long since the last time we saw each other."

"Indeed it has been long." She sat on one of the chairs in front of the desk as Bruce settled on the one opposite her.

"It must have been some journey to get here," the scholar paused, rising a little in his chair. "May I you offer you some refreshments?"

Valerie smiled appreciatively. "Thank you, Professor. You are, as always, so kind."

The man got up and returned with two glasses of red nectar, sweet and spicy. Valerie brought it toward her lips, taking a big sip but Bruce didn't touch his. Lowering her glass down, she cast a glance at the books beside him and he could swear that a smirk played on her lips. "So, how life's been treating you?"

Bruce furrowed his brows. Something was not right here. "Well, well. But not quiet since you left Cairo to return to your university." The professor paused and stared at her. "We're losing more donors each day. Our contributors' minds can be distracted easily these days." She nodded sadly, agreeing. "And unfortunately our suffering isn't limited to budget cuts. Our most treasured possession, the mask of Isis, was stolen approximately at the time you left us. The board has been trying to track it down, but so far to no avail."

Bruce drew out a small, weary sigh. He had a very good idea of what had happened to that mask. "That's most unfortunate," Valerie said, sounding amazed by the news.

"Fortunately the generous donation you made lifted our heavy hearts."

She leaned forward toward the scholar and shook her head, sighing and looking devastated. "Unfortunately I bear more bad news. It appears that I'd been deceived and the script is not genuine. The carbon test I had my people do was forged by con-artists." She pulled a folder out of her bag and extended it to professor. "Here, the real results declaring that I had been cruelly fooled." She let out another loaded sigh. "I came to retrieve it, Professor, and to break the news to you personally. It—it shames me to think that I let you down in such a way, unintentionally as it was."

The professor checked the reports, a deep scowl between his eyebrows and gave her a look. He then shoved the reports back to her and simply said, "No."

"No?" Bruce exclaimed. "You didn't hear her? The thing is not genuine."

"The genuineness of an object shall not be evaluated by its value but by its importance to the people who believe in it. The script is the only reason this museum is still on its feet."

Bruce locked his arms across his chest, ready to begin a philosophical argument with the scholar. When he started to open his mouth, Valerie's hand reached to his knee to stop him. He looked down at her, she quirked one eyebrow, curled her lips back at him, and then turned to the bald man.

Within an instant, her demeanor changed considerably. She crossed her legs, then her arms, and smiled as Bruce sighed. "Okay. What do you want?"

Bruce looked at her. "He isn't a scholar, is he?"

Valerie turned her attention to him. "He used to be a smuggler," she said smugly, picking up Irish accent dropping the British, and still wearing that knowing smile on her lips. "One of the best I know. But when things got a little too hot—"she rolled the word on her tongue playfully and looked backed to the pseudo professor, "—all of sudden he found himself interested in _history_." Her face turned serious. "Liam, I'm not wearing these awful clothes just because of your awfully good company. I want that script back. And I want it back _now_."

"Well, that depends—"

She cut him off, "We can pay you generously."

He shook his head laughing. "Sure you can. But that's not what I need." The feigned pleasantness gone, the pseudo professor leaned forward and asked with cold eyes. "Tell me, how's that sorry excuse for a father of yours?"

Bruce's head snapped back to her, stunned. "I don't know." Valerie gritted her teeth. "I've not seen him in years."

"Still?"

"Still."

He gave her a look then, alerting Bruce more than ever, and nodded. "But you must know his whereabouts. I know you, Felicia. You're not a person who would let someone crucial to you out of your grasp completely."

"_He_ is not crucial to me," she said coldly. He didn't respond, just looked at her with the same look. "I can pay you handsomely. Why do you need _me_ to find him?"

"I need a—dealer between us."

"Why?"

"Let's say he's got something of mine on his hands."

Valerie laughed. "Let me guess, you tried to screw him and he screwed you _better_."

"Something like that," he muttered.

"You want revenge," she said darkly.

"No. I want to see him again. Just to talk. Bring him to me, Felicia. Then, we'll reach an agreement." He pointed a finger to her. "But I advise you not to pull one of your stunts. After your… unique show the last time you were here, the board had decided to raise the security. Don't try to do anything stupid. Again."

* * *

"We have to steal it," she declared, entering their motel room. Alfred was waiting for them and he looked at him with confusion in his eyes.

"I'm not going to steal anything from a museum."

"That was really high of you but-"

"You told me you have no relatives," he abruptly cut off her sentence.

She looked at him. "Then I guess I lied. What a shock!"

Feeling a nasty headache sneaking insidiously through his temples, Bruce bent his head and rubbed them. "Why do you constantly lie to me?" he muttered. "I'm trying to help you."

"Well, if it'd be any consolation, I didn't lie to you. He's not my father. I _don't_ have a father. I refuse to entangle myself with a bond of something quite unreasonable just because he accidently dropped a few sperm upon a random ovary in some distant past!"

Bruce closed his eyes, drawing in a deep breath, and opened them again. "Do you know where he is?"

"No."

"Don't lie to me!"

She recognized his barking tone well enough to understand that his patience was growing thin. Yet she circled her arms under her chest, raised her chin up challengingly. "What if I did?"

"_Don't_," he replied simply, a not-so-subtle warning lacing it.

She stayed silent.

"Answer me," he ordered again in somewhat gentler tone but the edge was still there.

She untied her arms, turned aside, and when she spoke next it was directed to Alfred. "Alfred, could you organize our return back to Ireland?" She didn't look at him again, instead walked toward the bathroom.

Bruce took a step forward intending to follow her but Alfred's hand on his arm stopped him. "No, no. Let her be. She is—I don't think she's in the right mind to talk now. She obeyed you, sir. Leave it at that for now."

"I need to know what's happening, Alfred. I need to finish this pleasure cruise and return back to Gotham," he said seething. He was fed up with hindrances. Just the mere mention of Gotham was enough to anger him again. "First, off-the-record doctors, then dealers, then used-to-be-smugglers, and now this. _A father? _She's got a father."

"I fail to see why it's such a big problem, sir."

"She said she had been raised in foster homes. She declined the use of her real name, said it's just something on some paper. Not her name."

"And she also declined his parentage. Do I need to repeat her exact words?" Alfred searched Bruce's eyes. "Maybe it's not the best action to search for this man, sir."

Bruce didn't reply for a second. Alfred, of course, was right again; she seemed to have issues with this matter, but he needed to turn back to Gotham as quickly as possible. Declining this course of action meant they needed to try other paths; and because he was never going to steal (again) it would leave him only one option: a personal visit to Sean the dealer. And Batman couldn't visit him, couldn't afford to be seen around Ireland and that meant Batman would have to deal with him in an unfamiliar Bruce Wayne disguise.

He didn't kid himself, or enjoy the presumption that he could keep his alter ego restricted, keep him at bay forever; especially after Rachel—died. He had been closer than ever to losing himself yet again into the dark depths of human grief and desperation where Batman had been born, but he was realistic to the core, and recognized his symptoms well enough to at least try to keep himself back from that proverbial cliff edge.

Either Batman was his mask or his face was a mask for Batman, as Rachel had put it delicately, it didn't matter; being Batman without any physical mask covering him, protecting him from himself as much as from the world around him, would prove to be an enormous mistake, one he wouldn't dare make.

And he'd be damned if he wasn't curious. Curious about where this was going. She'd said she had been raised in foster homes, with pride, that she never had any family then suddenly she had a father, even though she was refusing to acknowledge it. Bruce knew he shouldn't be surprised; lying was as natural to her as breathing was to others but still… there was something, something bothering him about the new turn of events.

* * *

Valerie sat on the edge of the small bath tub in the bathroom. She had to escape Bruce's gaze; the curiosity she saw sparkling underneath a pool of frustration didn't promise good things. She had managed to get out of his clutches for now but he wasn't going to let this subject drop. He was far too stubborn. She cursed, and felt like breaking something. But that would bring his attention back to her, so instead she settled with banging a heavy fist on the surface of bath tub. It hurt, a lot.

If there was a thing called as Fate, she decided, it must hate her. She didn't have any other explanation for it. She had spent her last six years taking every bothersome precaution to not see Jason's face ever again, and she had been determined to make it seven. Something curled in depths of her stomach. _Fuck it_, she muttered.

_He has such big eyes for a man. Big, bright, light, dancing eyes. He is her father. Cathleen told her that this morning. "Sarah, come here—"she had yelled. "This is Jason. He is your father."_

_She gives him a suspicious look. He is big, so big to be her father. "You are my father?" she asks with doubt. He is sitting on the swing next to her; his legs sweep the ground rhythmically as he sways back and forth slowly. He nods._

_"Are you going to take me with you?" she asks. Two weeks ago Jareth's new father and mother came and took him away. They were going someplace called America and Jareth told her that it was really far away._

_But the man—her father—shakes his head. She frowns. Aren't the fathers supposed to take their children away? That's always how it happens. Father-Mother or sometimes just one of them comes and takes you away. "I can't take you with me. I can't be a good daddy."_

_"Were you always my daddy?" she asks this time, confused. Sometimes the coming ones are the new fathers and mothers; sometimes Cathleen tells them they are old ones. **The real ones.**_

_He nods again. He is the real one. She feels angry. "Why didn't you come before?"_

_"I didn't know your mother was pregnant," he hesitates. "We-um-I didn't realize. I just learnt." Her mother…the real mother had died when she born. Cathleen, when she is angry with her, says that it was because of her. 'What a girl…' she says, 'No wonder your mother died of your stubbornness.'_

_"I live a difficult life," he tries to explain. She wonders why. Adults never bother. "It's not a proper place for a little girl like you."_

_She doesn't respond, just nods. Cathleen was right. Cathleen's always right. No one wants her._

_"Sarah—"_

_Angry, she bites. "I hate it." She hates **being** Sarah. It's such a stupid name and no one wants Sarah. "I hate that name."_

_Her father smiles, "Then what do you wish it to be?"_

_She ponders on it. She'd like it to be…Amy. Her new father and mother had taken her away two months ago but once she came back to see them with her new fluffy dress, her new doll and told her that now she lives in a very big house, with a room for herself and a TV. Yes, she would very like to be Amy. "Amy," she declares, "I want to be Amy."_

_Her father laughs, takes something out of his pocket and leaves it on her lap. She looks at the shiny bracelet, with all the sparkling stones and gold. She picks it up with glinting eyes. "Then we'll call you Amy," her father says as she smiles._

_The next month her father comes again, this time bringing a sparkling necklace with him. She takes the package with greedy hands and looks at the trinket with wondrous eyes. "Amy—"Her father starts but she grimaces._

_He laughs softly. "What—you don't want to be Amy anymore?"_

_No. Amy came to see them after one week of her father's visit and she showed her the bracelet her father had given to her. Amy wrinkled her nose and said it was fake and showed her own bracelet, saying that it was real gold, not fake, not like hers. She shoved her into ground, sat on her chest. She punched her on the chin. It was Cathleen who separated them and she was punished first, and sent to detention for a week; with only bread and water and no TV, and her bottom was still hurting. She hates detention, she hates Cathleen, but more than anything she hates… "I hate Amy," she says and retells the story._

_Her father gives her cheek a sound kiss. "Oh…pumpkin' don't you worry. She's jealous of you."_

_"Why?" She looks confused again. She has nothing to make Amy jealous._

_Her father bends down and whispers to her ear like he is giving her a secret. "I saw her. She's such an ugly girl. And look at you…so very pretty. She's jealous of you because even with all of her real gold she will never be as beautiful as you are."_

_She hugs his father. He hugs her back, laughing. "Oh…but now what will I call you?"_

_Between her father arms, she ponders. Lucy…The pretty girl on the telly, she wants to be Lucy._

* * *

When she walked out of the bathroom, all of her vital signs had returned to normal; pulse merely eighty beats in minute, body temperature _seemed_ to be in accordance with her blood pressure. Admittedly this new development had caught her unguarded and she had reacted _a little bit_ hysterically but since she was regaining control she was ready to deal with Bruce bloody Wayne.

He stood when she entered their adjoined room, looking solemn. She couldn't honestly blame him. This supposedly simple excursion had already spiraled out of their control. Maybe it would be best if they turned back to Gotham to prepare another plan.

Bruce could be…difficult to read. One second he was a kind gentleman like in those old movies, and then the next he managed to scare the shit out of her. It was odd but Cathleen—despite of her many shortcomings—didn't a raise a fool for an orphan, hence she was well aware the effects of being away Gotham had on him. He was devoted to a fault to his cause and at times like these she could openly see how deep his dedication—or rather his obsession—ran, and it gave her thoughts to reflect upon.

He sat again his chair, giving his attention back to the tablet in his hands. She arched her brow. "Aren't you going to ask me questions?"

He didn't raise his head. "Why bother?"

She smiled with closed lips and sat on the chair just in front of him. "So you're going to sit there and give me the silence treatment?"

That made him look up at her. "I can ask you questions but I won't accomplish anything by it. You will just spin one of your stories."

She stood up, her hands clasped behind her. "Maybe I won't." She cocked her head to the side. "Will you take the chance?"

He turned back to his tablet. "No."

"Are you playing some sort of reverse questioning technique bullshit on me?" she demanded, and walking towards him stopping when her legs touched his knee. "If so don't bother. You're very transparent."

He stood up, towering above her, and again that aura… He took a step forward, and involuntarily she took one back. His lips pulled into a semi-grimace, semi-smirk.

Gathering herself back, she smiled sweetly. "Insinuation of physical abuse won't work either." Then her expression turned to serious. "I'm sorry for trying to deceive you. Again."

Bruce nodded his head and settled back to his chair. With the tension in the air ceasing, she looked around. "Where is Alfred?"

"Shopping. For dinner," he added after her pointed look.

She went toward the window and settled against the radiator. "Well, I didn't lie to you completely," she said conversationally after a while. "I didn't grow up in foster homes, it was more like in a particular one; you know, one of the convents. My mother and he, they used to hang around occasionally. I guess she ended knocked up… in a moment of—bad luck. She died at my birth, and had no living relatives, she was an orphan too. He didn't know she was pregnant. He…had to leave Ireland for a couple of years and when he returned, voila, he had a daughter. He wasn't a fatherly type but used to visit me occasionally." She shrugged. "We hung out together for a while after I kind of left the foster home—then we grew…apart."

"Kind of left?"

"I escaped with him when I was fifteen."

He wondered what had made them grow—apart but instead chose to state the obvious. "You're really Irish then."

She shrugged off in a way it could mean both 'yes and no' and he looked at her face carefully, searching for characteristic Irish features; high cheekbones, tilted eyes, pale face, red hair. Her hair when he had first seen her had been dark blonde, now it was the darkest brown, close to a natural black that fell in loose waves if she didn't bother to straighten it, but the roots of her dark hair suggested that she wasn't a natural redhead. Looking closer though, he spotted very faint freckles around the base of her nose underneath a layer of foundation. "There is no trace of Irish accent in your voice," he observed out loud. Come to think of it, there wasn't any special accent in her rich thick tone that could link to her any particular place, nor any special phrases suggesting where she came from. She liked to stay anonymous, well, at least when she was _Valerie_.

She shook her head, laughing faintly. "I live in America now, can't be talking like a loony leprechaun…" She crossed her arms under her breast, and bowed her head, her feet poking the floor absently. "This is ridiculous, after years, but we—"she lifted her head, "—I need to find Christopher. And that greedy slimy slug…I—I-" she faltered and let out a loaded sigh, and for a moment, just one moment, she looked, for the very first time since he had seen her, looked close to something very akin to—dare he say—_vulnerable_? And the look, that posture shocked him even _more_ than seeing her lying over a battered coach barefoot, clothed only in short labor coats, bruised, bloody, and passed out. Then she sighed again, and said in a small voice, "I really don't want to see him again."

Her eyes widened, and she looked like astonished by her own confession. Her gaze flicked toward the bathroom. He suddenly stood up and walked over her, and then did something he hadn't ever expected _himself_ to do. He hugged her.

She stilled for a moment, stunned, looking at her arms behind his back. Her puzzled mind ran over to possible reactions in a mere matter of second before drawing in a deep breath and hugging him hesitantly back.

Despite of all of the massive muscles of his broad chest, he was soft against her clothed skin. He smelled like coconut mixed with a fresh trace of sweat and a smell she couldn't name, possibly his own odor, without a trace of any cologne. It was all good, solid and very manly. She felt in his embrace, not any kind of sensuality, just kindness… it was only to comfort her—she abruptly stepped back out of his arms. These kinds of actions, ones purely out of compassion, were to solace her, to move her—_to manipulate_ her. Bile rose up in her throat as her face distorted with disdain.

Even though Bruce was surprised at her sudden reaction, he didn't show it. He looked neutral, like it had never happened. "We don't have to find him if you don't feel comfortable about it," he said at last.

She glowered at him. Now he said _that? _"I need to find Christian," she repeated for an answer. God have mercy on her, she did, now it seemed for more than one reason, and if that meant that she needed to see the face of that sorry excuse for a human being again then so be it. Bruce merely looked at her. Baffled, she called a tactical retreat.

Bathroom again.

* * *

_A/N: The merry trip around the globe is a direct adaption of an SG-1 episode of featuring heavily Daniel and Vala._


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five:**

* * *

She wanted to be someplace else.

_You're not nervous_, she told herself. _This is just a normal reaction, very understandable, very expected._

The reasoning was convincing, yet she still wanted to be someplace else. She fidgeted again, and looked at the desolated streets. Some things really didn't change. Darkened streets left to neglect and entirely forgotten, they were just as ugly and dirty as she remembered. Once when she had been a woman-child, they hadn't seemed so. Back then there had been a strong sense of novelty; of the men striding boastingly, minding their own dangerous business; the mystical drawing of forbidden fruit. That novelty had waned quickly though, as was common with such sentiments. Novelty had left to be replaced by banality, dangerous men had become gaping fools at the sight of her, and forbidden fruit had lost its appeal. She had been so young. She brushed away the memories, turning her attention inward again. She needed to collect herself. She couldn't deal with Jason with jangled nerves and it wouldn't help anything by wandering in the past through fickle memories. And Bruce sending her wary gazes every time she stirred certainly wasn't helping either.

She really wanted to be someplace else.

_Fuck it… _Why had she ever insisted that they found Jason anyway? Bruce had suggested turning back to find another way and she was sure if he had gotten fed up enough, he would have found a way to make Sean talk. But his compassion, his…pity at that night at the hotel, no, she had never minded pity as long as it suited her but not like this, certainly not like this. Bruce needed to understand that her father meant nothing to her. He needed to understand that no one meant anything to her. Only herself, no one but her, then perhaps he might lose his deluded ideas about her redemption and whatnot.

She cast a quick glance at him. His traveling beard was of five days now, making him look scruffy and very un-Bruce-like. He had covered his head with a baseball cap, using it to hide most of his features. His demeanor had changed significantly from an elegant billionaire to a street punk; even the loose pants with a chain around his waist didn't look out of place. When she had seen him first, she had nodded approvingly. He hadn't been kidding in Egypt, when he had said that he knew how to disguise himself.

Taking a deep breath she knocked on the door rapidly until it was opened by a beautiful young girl. She raised her eyebrows and rudely bypassed her, hitting her shoulder slightly as she stepped inside. He followed her.

The girl looked back from beside the door. "I'm sorry…but who are you?"

"Opening the door without checking it first? I wonder _what_ he teaches you." She shook her head, disappointed. "Is Jason around?"

"Yeah…" The girl muttered. "But—"

"Sweetie pie—who…" A man in his late fifties, with the same arched nose, sharp angled features, and tilted eyes as Valerie, strode into living room with a posture openly declaring trouble. "I said—"he stopped mid-sentence and looked stunned for a second and arched his eyebrow. "Pumpkin!"

Valerie rolled her eyes.

"What no kiss for daddy?"

She inclined her head at the young girl. "Is she even _legal_, Jason?"

"What—Gloria—"Jason acted surprised then sneered. "Oh…she just turned seventeen."

Valerie looked at the girl and smiled sweetly. "Watch out…He's going to sell you out at the first opportunity he can get," her gaze skipped towards her father again, "If he hasn't done so already."

Bruce watched the strange exchange, standing next to her.

"Doll—"Jason said exasperatedly, with an expression very close to disappointment on his face, and it made her very angry, "Ya _still_ mad at me?"

Blood boiling inside her veins, and pointedly ignoring the curious looks Bruce was giving her, she stared at him, raising one eyebrow. "What do you expect_, _Jason? I mean, really? After your unique…" she raised her eyes to ceiling, "suggestion to me?"

Jason now looked genuinely bored and disappointed. "Playing that game again, are we, dear daughter? Let's not, you know how boring it is."

She gritted her teeth and gave a poisonous glare. "And God forbid if I bore you, right?" She barked out a humorless laugh, "But yes, you're right, let's not, as I'm not here on a social call or to talk about past."

Jason looked at her carefully with his head tilted to the side. "Then, pray tell, why did you come?"

Valerie dropped herself into one of the armchairs. "I may not have been looking forward to seeing you, but one of our mutual friends would very much like to."

"Making booty calls now?" he asked, laughing.

She stilled for a moment, her body tensing as Bruce protectively moved behind her and rested his hand on her shoulder. She held back her urge to shake it off. "Jason," she replied, her voice strained. God, she was so tense she could almost feel every nerve in her body stretching. "I'm not an errand boy anymore. Those days passed long ago."

Jason shook his head, still laughing. "Ah…you've always been such a drama queen," he said with something close to what other people might have called nostalgia. It irritated her more than his horrid laugh. "You threw away my gifts too, I presume."

She responded with a glare.

Jason chuckled out a faint laugh. "Remember the day you broke the lights?"

Her body shook as Bruce's grip on her shoulder stiffened; and an old, familiar, cold fury scorched her inside. "No," she said through her gritted teeth then stood, shaking the hand off, and pointed a finger at him. "But if you insist on learning what I remember—" She paused for a second to give him a loathing look. "I do still remember you leaving. You barged into my life, fed me with your—your…" She searched her vocabulary for a word. She couldn't say lies because they both knew it would be false. Jason almost never lied. Instead when he wanted you, he just said the most obvious truths, and left you to find your own way back to him. "—your truths," she said, her face puckering like the mere mention of word disgusted her, "—got me sucked up in your schemes then you—you left me behind—" she stopped, expelling a shaky breath, her throat tight with words stuck under a fury of betrayal so old she was almost tired of feeling it.

Then she noticed her hands were trembling. _No…get a grip, get a grip…get a grip._

His face was serious now, all mirth gone, his voice sounded frustrated when he spoke. "We've been over this before. And how many times do we need to do that before you accept the simple truth?" He paused, looked at her eyes. "You know very well which path that line of thinking brought you to."

Her blood froze in her veins, the trembling stopped. Her lips pulled into a forced smile, full of contempt, her voice turned cold as ice, sharp as a blade. "You don't need to worry about me. Remember, in the end, I always win."

That was a bad idea, Bruce had always known, but suddenly he realized how bad it was.

"Daughter—"

She cut him off with a raised hand. "Valerie," she informed him curtly as Bruce scowled, "and let's not play this game. _It's… boring_."

"Okay then, _Valerie_—"He stressed the word. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"

She sat back on the seat again. "You're not listening to me." She crossed her legs and sighed. Just two minutes in his presence and she already felt drained. "I told you. Someone needs to see you."

"Who?"

"Our dear professor," Jason's face was closed off now, and in return she grinned smugly.

"Err—well," He slumped back on the seat across from her and stretched out his legs. "Thanks for the offer, but no."

"It wasn't an offer," Bruce interrupted flatly. "You will come back with us."

He snickered derisively. "Oh…so he talks."

She looked directly in his eyes. "He can do far better than that. Don't make me demonstrate it for you."

"Oh…threatening your own old man. That's no good, doll."

She leaned forward, "And I've been always such a bad girl, Jason. You know this _better_ than anyone."

Jason leaned forward, his face now very serious. "I'm afraid I do, Sarah. And I'm so very sorry."

A dazzled look appeared on her face as she jumped to her feet, looking tense, her left hand whipping behind her on instinct. "Jason?"

Bruce looked at them, trying to catch up but before he could do anything a redhead man emerged out of the bedroom, pointing a very serious looking Browning P-35 at her head. Another two followed in his steps both holding their guns aimed respectively at Bruce and Jason.

He should have known it. The minute he'd set foot inside, he should have felt it. Valerie. He was so distracted by her he hadn't noticed he had walked into a trap. He was supposed to be better than this, so much better. He closed his lecturing mind off, trying to find a way to disable all parties with minimum damage. He could easily take them out of the game in under ten seconds but during that time it would leave Valerie and others open to assault. He couldn't do two things simultaneously and even with his armor he wasn't invincible; without it his chances lessened a great deal. He cast a glance towards Valerie and saw her looking at her father with a shocked gaze full of rage at betrayal.

"Nah—" The redhead laughed. "He didn't sell you out—your reputation, my sweet, still precedes you." Bruce started to step in front of her on instinct but the first man into room waved his gun at him. "Stand still. Don't even breath, mate."

The redhead turned his attention to Valerie again. "Now come on… You really believed that you can come and go as you please? Why are you still so bent on insulting me in every possible way? What did you expect? This is our town, you whore, _my town_." He took a few steps forward. "I swore when I saw you next, I'd put a bullet that lying face of yours."

Ronnie couldn't kill his _whore_, couldn't bring himself to do it. He had tried. She shuddered remembering how that had ended, but suppressed the dread down. But still it was a hard struggle not to touch the scar under her chin, just above her artery. She shook her head mentally, no. No. She _could_ deal with him. She took a step forward, lifted her hands in front of her then _looked_ at him. "Ron—"But he cut her off, shaking his gun at her.

"No!" he cried, closing in on her, then a blow hit her and she flew to the farthest edge. _Oh hell, not again_. "Don't talk. Don't—"he paused, as if it pained him. "—talk."

Summoning his alter ego, Bruce took a step forward and looked at the man threateningly. "Leave her alone."

"Oh—"The redhead turned aside, laughed maniacally, joggling with laughter. "Oh—she got you caught up in her web, didn't she? Ha ha—look at you, already under her spell. You know what kind of red lipped devil she is? _Felicia_." He told the name like a mantra, with a sick longing. "She talked you sweetly and you believed, didn't you? You can't even say a word. She touches you, her touch is like a flame, and she burns you with it, yet only you can tell how warm it is. She looks in your eyes, then you tell yourself she loves me because you think if she didn't she couldn't look like this."

He got closer to where she was sprawled on the floor, glaring at him. His free arm reached to touch her. He caressed her chin softly, then swept under and gently touched the scar. She stopped breathing, her body turned to stone, and his voice, when he talked, was softer than the fingers brushing her skin. "But still you know, still you know, but you tell yourself it doesn't matter, even though she doesn't—as long as she stays, stays at your side, _nothing_ matters. Then you're lost under her spell." His caressing fingers brutally caught her hair and pulled her up. "But it's not a spell," he cried as he threw her again to the floor. "It's poison, slipping slowly in your veins, see it? You have to stay away; you can't see her, talk to her, touch her, you can't let her talk or else—"He pulled the safety off, "or else you'd believe."

Bruce didn't hesitate any further. He threw a kick at man nearest him, sending him down to oblivion and ran toward Valerie. Good thing that she hadn't hesitated either. Within millisecond she was up on her feet, throwing herself behind the sofa. Then three things happened all at once.

First, Bruce with a swift but clean cut motion turned the second man around and circled his neck with his arm, pressing hard on his pulse until he fell into unconsciousness. It took under five seconds.

Second, Valerie rose up behind the sofa, her body tensed like a stringed bow, ready to leap into action.

Third, there was a bang.

She ducked again, cursing under her breath. Gloria who had been stunningly silent so far started to wail. Another cry, definitely male, full of pain reached her ears. Carefully she poked out her head. Ronnie was lying on the floor, beside Bruce's feet, his body limp; unconscious but alive. Closing her eyes, she let out a deep breath. She opened her eyes and emerged from where she had hid. Bruce's hard stare was carved from stone, and fixed on something behind her. With a swish of hair, she turned around.

Jason was lying beside Gloria, his body bleeding. She turned to look at Bruce with wide eyes before turning to look down again. Jason was still lying beside Gloria, who was still screaming, tears running freely down on her cheeks. The blood was seeping through Jason's body, dripping. Blood, so much bloody blood.

She froze as if it was her blood, as if the blood in her veins had suddenly been pulled out of her body and it was what was pooling so steadily on the floor. He couldn't—he couldn't, could he?

She ran to him. The girl shrieked again and ran toward the door, out of the house, still screaming and Bruce's eyes followed her, trying to think of a plan. Valerie turned the bleeding man on his side, pressing onto the wound on his back with her palm. "Fuck…fuck…fuck it—"she muttered, her face distorted in panic.

"Don't—you hear me?" her hands shook him. "Don't you dare—no—no—"

"Doll—"he muttered, blood dripping out of the corner of his mouth. "I didn't—didn't sell you out."

"Don't go sentimental on me—"she ground out, "_come on_…"

"I—"Coughing blood, he stopped, and his face dropped to his side.

"No—no," She looked up at Bruce who knelt beside her, his left hand was at Jason's pulse, trying to pick up any sign. She clutched his arm, her nails digging into his flesh. "Bruce—do something."

"Valerie—"Bruce could only mutter.

"No—"She shook her head; the world seemed to be hidden under a mist. "Come on—I remember. I was at detention. You found me. You held me through the bars. 'It's nothing to do with us'. Yes, I remember everything. Please…don't." She began to beat his body with her fists. Wetness, there was wetness along her cheeks. Then she realized she was crying. "Don't you die on me—"

"Valerie, he's gone," he said softly as his hands tried to peel her away from the dead body. "We need to go. The police could come at any minute." She resisted his attempts, shrugged his arms off and shoved him. Standing up, Bruce pulled her off the ground. He spoke evenly, his eyes searching hers. "We need to get going."

She leaned on him, grabbed his arm for strength. Jason…was dead. Jason…her father…Still whimpering, her fingers clutched Bruce's shirt.

With his free hand Bruce took his phone out and dialed Alfred. "Alfred, are you all right?" he asked and listened to Alfred's calm but confused answer. "Ok, leave the motel and meet us at the second rendezvous point. And prepare our return back to Gotham ASAP. We are leaving."

"Sir, is everything all right?"

"No," he said into the phone before he closed it. Everything definitely was not all right. Bruce pulled her closer to his side, titled his head down again to find her eyes, and said gently, "Valerie—we have to go."

His soft tone made something somewhere inside twitch before it fractured. She shoved him off her, bent down, held her knees, and took deep breaths, her chest moving rhythmically. Bruce started at her, and she stared at the floor for a full minute. When he made another attempt toward her she stopped him with a raised hand. "I'm fine," she muttered.

"I'm fine." She muttered again, this time more to herself. Her head bowed, she stared at her bloody hands and the darkened spots on her clothes. She shook her head. What had just happened was bad enough; she wasn't going to lose it in front of Bruce. She was going to get herself back together. She was going to.

_First things first, come on—do it; straighten up, straighten up, straighten up. Be strong, be stone…get yourself back together, you always do._

She gathered all of her strength and straightened her back. The world shook tremendously but she held still, waiting. She took a small step forward, head held high, back straight. "We need to clean up all of our trace first," she said slowly. Good, focus on the problems first. Action was good.

Bruce shook his head. "Don't have time for a thorough clean up. The girl was in shock, she might have called someone. And the shot must have been heard, one of the neighbors might have already called the police, too. And there is the matter of his fami-"

She shook her head, "No, I don't think anyone knows yet. If he'd told anyone else, others would have come too. Alfred, he's okay, right?"

He nodded, "We need to get going."

"Our finger prints are all over the place, together with a dead body, we can't just leave."

He cast a disinterested gaze the limp bodies on the floor. She was right, this was a problem but they couldn't stay here… His fingerprints wouldn't come up in any database but for _Felicia_…who knew? "They won't be coming to— for the next twenty minutes."

She bit her bottom lip, mulling an idea over her mind, staring at wall far ahead. "I wish we didn't have to leave his body behind," she remarked reluctantly. Bruce tried to think of something to say to that but a second after she saved him from the trouble. "But if wishes were horses, thieves would be riders." She turned to him and opened her palm. "Gimme your phone."

His incredulous look turned into a suspicious one immediately. "Give me your phone, Bruce." She ordered again, voice flat, even, not holding even a slight tremor.

With another suspicious look, he handed it to her. She dialed a number, he noticed, with an Irish prefix. "This is Felicia Bale—"she stopped for a second, "yes, _the_ _whore_, my reputation does really precede me, apparently," she bit out, "now, shut up and get me Frank."

She ignored Bruce's glare and stayed silent for a while before curtly saying, "Hmm, how about this? Your son is lying unconsciousness next to a dead body, the murder weapon in his hand, and the police might come at any minute. I know it might be really hard for you, but why don't you try to stop being such an idiot for a couple of minutes and get your men down here to take care of it?"

She was silent and then huffed out mockingly, "Yes, yes, yes, I can quite perfectly imagine _what_ manners you'll teach me when you get your hands on me, but I strongly recommend to drop the wishful thinking for a moment and return back to reality, which is, I repeat, a dead body, murder weapon, and your son, all together, lying on the floor."

"Get in line," she snapped before closing the phone. She tossed it back to Bruce then turned on her heels. "Come on, let's go."

Bruce caught her at the arm, and turned her towards him. "Valerie, this—this is not right."

She tilted her head to side. "Why? Let's let them deal with it, it's their mess after all."

"He's your father."

"I don't have a father." She pulled herself free, and walked out.

When he was on first steps to climb down, she'd already reached to the main door to street. She pulled the door open, then her motions halted briefly, and the brief hesitation stretched out as she stood in front of the door, not moving.

He stopped in the middle of the steps too, looking at her back. She slammed the door, her palm flattened over its frame, and sighed. She turned on her heels. "Can you dig?"

He stared at her, and she asked again, "Can you dig a grave?"

"I—"he started but she cut him off, walking hastily towards the steps, then took them two a time, "Never mind, we'll just find someplace to drop him," she said passing him, "and I know a perfect one." she pivoted her body on the upper steps, "Come on, hurry up. Don't have much time."

He regained his motor skills once again and trotted after her. "Security cameras?"

She tried to open the door but when they had left, the bolt must have slapped back into its lock. "Jason must have dealt with the ones monitoring the front of his house. He couldn't have the big brother eyeing his place." Her hands moved inside her leather jacket, under her blouse, and she fished a small piece of steel out of her cleavage, "God, I was being an idiot…the girl…not checking the door," she shook her head, fingers already starting to work on the lock. He pushed her aside and then took two steps backwards.

She looked at him. "Easier," he said, kicking the door open.

"Right," she walked in, and stopped dead in her tracks, then took one step back.

Her eyes fixed on the downed men and the blood, she remained on the threshold. Slowly, tentatively, he put his hand on her shoulder. "Go back to the car," he said, "Wait for me there. I—I'll take care of it."

She didn't talk first then twisted her neck up to give him a look. "Can you carry him alone?"

"Yes."

She nodded then and turned back, "Take photos, good ones, clearly showing Ronnie with him. We need to have an insurance policy just in case."

He nodded. He looked at the men lying on the floor then carefully went to kitchen to find some gloves. The kitchen was a mess, so instead he found nylon shopping bags, and tearing them apart, wrapped them around his hands.

While working, he closed his mind off to what he was doing.

Ten minutes later, he closed the trunk of the car they had purchased through one of his dummy corporations, and went to the front. Valerie was sitting in the driver's seat, so he went to passenger side.

She drove for half an hour in silence then started to pass through in a grove, he suspected to being around the outskirts of the Cork. She drove another ten minutes then stopped by a narrow coast on a medium sized lake.

He opened the car and went to the back. Valerie got out too, but instead of the coming to his side, she went to the front and sat on the car's hood. The weather was cold, the winter air snapping through inside their warm clothing, and the wind bit his skin. He closed his mind off further, and focused on the chill. His hands started to lose feeling, the chill cutting his senses.

The older man's lifeless body made a rough thud when it dropped in the water. This wasn't a funeral, but it was a burial, he told himself—a ceremony of sort as he watched the stone tied on the man's ankle as it slowly sunk… First he was going to be together with earth deep down in the lake, and then his—substance-his water was going to mix with the lake. He would become the lake.

Bruce stood still on the coast, his mind trying to come up with a prayer for the dead. He could find none in his blank mind. He crouched, dipped his fingers into water slowly, and then passed them through the earth before he pulled out. The water dripped through his fingers, and he closed his eyes, and said 'I'm sorry,' lips not moving.

He returned back to her side. She still sat on the hood, her head bowed, her attention fixed solely on her lap. "Do you—do you want a moment at the lake?"

She lifted her head, and gave him a look. "Why?"

He looked back at her, in silence.

She returned his stare, then shook her head, and hopped off the car. "That's not why I'm doing this," she remarked flatly, walking toward the passenger seat this time. She opened the door. He opened the driver's side and got in. "Our death like our life belongs to us, only us," she said as he started the car, and his gaze flicked to her. "And no one, regardless of how pathetic one might be, deserves to end up chopped into little pieces, shoved inside little garbage bags, and disposed of in a garbage heap. But _this_—" she emphasized the word again, "—_this_ doesn't mean anything else." She turned her gaze away from him then, towards the window, the moon outside slowly fading, the lake drawing away from them.

She didn't talk any further, and Bruce drove in silence.

* * *

Bruce came out the bathroom, his hair still wet, dressed in dark pants and a simple cotton shirt. He gathered the bloodied clothes into a bundle, and swore when he was back at the Manor he would burn them and throw the ashes into the lake on the grounds.

He looked down at Valerie. She was still lying on the bed. She had been lying there since they had gotten back, her body motionless, staring at the ceiling, pretending that they didn't exist. Upon seeing him come out, she jolted back, walked toward him quickly, and bypassing him, slipped behind the bathroom door.

Bruce looked after her, and Alfred looked at him curiously, his eyes shaded with worry. "What happened, sir?"

Bruce sighed deeply. "They knew she'd returned to town. A man, I guess, a son of a local mob leader was waiting for us. He—well, it appears they have history together. He tried to kill her. We fought—there was a lone gunshot. She was able to duck, her father was not."

"He—he died?"

He nodded.

"And the body?"

"We—we—buried him in a lake."

Alfred stayed in silence for a while then slowly said, "More tragic than what I was expecting." He glanced down towards the bathroom. "But, sir, she doesn't seem too—um—"he paused, and frowned, "she seems quite collected."

Bruce shook his head. Then he stood up, his features hardened. "We are returning tonight. Can you arrange the details?"

"Yes, sir," Alfred said simply and he was more than glad of it. Face closed off, emotionless, he walked over to the exit, and stopped before opening it; his hand on the handle. "I was afraid that it would come to this but it seems now that I don't have any other choice. Watch her, despite what she seems, she's far from being—all right," He pulled the door open. "I won't be late."

Alfred watched his back as he walked down the hall; he was tense, his steps determined, before the door closed on his retreating figure. _Batman_. Batman was ready to strike. Alfred slightly, just slightly pitied whomever he was going to take all of the—the consequences of the jolly trip out on.

* * *

She felt like a train wreck, like a mess, but looking at her reflection in the mirror, her paranoia lessened considerably; at least by looking at her, no one could tell it. She hadn't a father, no, she hadn't…Jason—Jason didn't deserve to be called a father. She hadn't left him behind, not because he was her father, no—not—no, she couldn't have let that fate befall anyone she knew, as long as she could help it.

She could deal with this. It was ridiculous to feel like this, she had written him off a long time ago, at that bench, walking away from him, she had written him off. She hadn't a father. How would she have reacted if she had heard Jason had died? She would have been—she couldn't honestly tell. She might have regarded it coldly, perhaps dropping a few tears when she was sure no one else was there to see. She might have even felt the pain too, but somewhere deep down, she knew the most powerful sense she would have felt would have been relief… a strong chord of emancipation that overloaded page of her life was _finally_ closed, and relief for knowing that the possibility of seeing him ever again had ceased to exist.

Too many things had happened…too many issues still cut a little too raw, so many old wounds, and old bitter feelings she was tired of carrying but didn't exactly know how to get rid of.

But she had tried, she was still trying, god knew she was; screaming, kicking, fighting… every day, every breath was a struggle, but she never should have returned back to him, never, ever.

But Ronnie-he was going to pay. Pay it greatly. She was going to make sure of it. Despite her intentions, tears welled up in her eyes and she gripped the side of the sink, refusing to let them run free again. Instead she opened the tap, listened the running water. Her eyes fixated on the twirling water below and it took everything in her not to collapse.

_Father…_

_The detention room is dark and dirty. And she knows every ounce of its darkness and filth. She sits just below the window; her figure casts a shadow in the moonlight._

_"Hey—pumpkin!"_

_She raises her head and sees him. She looks away._

_He offers a necklace through the bars on the window. They are the newest additions to the detention cell occupying the basement of the foster home. Cathleen has had enough of her episodes of breaking out._

_She takes the trinket without interest and tosses it away. The time when she could be fooled with worthless trinkets had passed long ago. She isn't a little girl anymore._

_"Hey—doll…don't be like this. I'm sorry I didn't come earlier. I was—hindered."_

_She shrugs. One way or another, her father is always hindered. "That witch of a woman didn't let me see you."_

_She pulls her lips into a bitter smile. What else could you expect from Cathleen?_

_"Did you break the lights of entrance hall?" he asks then._

_"No."_

_"Don't lie when the truth is obvious."_

_"I didn't break them," she says through her clenched lips._

_"They saw you," he points out._

_"Aiihh—"she yells angrily, standing up. "What if I did? Are they more precious than your daughter?"_

_He clutches the bars strongly. "No…of course not," he says in that tone, his voice acute and serious, and she knows what he says is the absolute truth. "I told her that too, don't you worry." He looks at her. "But why-why did you do it?"_

_She looks at her feet, and fidgets, her foot poking the dirt on the floor. "They were ignoring me, father," she admits finally with a small voice. "Whenever I passed the hall, they weren't turning on. They were pretending as if I don't exist."_

_Her father laughs. She looks back up to him. "Doll…" he says, shaking his head, still smiling, "Well, they weren't turning on when I passed by the last time. Cheap bitches, they had tacky ones put on. It's got nothing to do with us."_

_After a long time she hugs her father fiercely through the bars. "Please, father, let me come with you."_

* * *

It had taken less than an hour. Bruce closed his mind off to that consequence too, and the physical pain he was feeling and knocked on the door twice fast and once slowly; their password. Alfred opened it. Upon seeing the empty room, he arched his eyebrow.

Taking his hint, Alfred commented, "She's still in bathroom." And cast a glance toward him. "Will you require dressings for this?" He pointed with one finger at the cut over his left eyebrow.

He shook his head.

"Of course not," Alfred nodded. "Well, since you've returned, Master Wayne, I need to go outside to arrange the a few details. We need to contact people who have been waiting for word from us."

Bruce looked thoughtful. "Be careful, Alfred."

Ten minutes after Alfred left, the bathroom door opened and Valerie emerged. Bruce looked up. She was…well…collected as Alfred had put it elegantly before, and her face was even more emotionless than before. She at looked him, at the cut on his eyebrow. "Well?" she asked. He wanted to write her detached tone off as a show, he really tried but he knew that wasn't the case.

"I found out where your doctor is." She nodded her head. "Sean was very understanding."

She fisted her hands along her hips. "That was what we should have done at the beginning," she said through her teeth, her voice barely audible. He didn't comment. She turned back and opened one of the drawers of the wardrobe at the far corner of the room, then remarked flatly, "You expect me grieving for a man who doesn't exist for me."

Before he could say anything, she went on. "If yesterday someone told me that he had died, it wouldn't have affected me—not enough to fall into grieving." She took something out of drawer. Fidgeting in place he saw it was a small black backpack. "I honestly don't see why it should change just because I happened to be over there while it was happening."

"You didn't leave him behind, Valerie."

Her body still obstructing his view, she started fill backpack with something, her voice growing even more detached. "I told you, it was nothing to do with it—with him siring— me biologically."

"It's okay to feel grief," he said at last.

"Is it okay to feel relief too, Bruce?" she snapped back coldly, without turning back. "Relief for knowing that I'm finally free of him. Because if you really want to know what I'm feeling, that's what I'm feeling, _more_ than anything."

One second, Bruce wanted to contradict her, shake her senseless, yell at her but the next he found that he couldn't, because he knew in deep down she was right. When Ducard had said that he had blamed his parents for not fighting back, Bruce had wanted to contradict him, to yell at him and he had, because he had been young but he had also known, deep down, that his former master had been right. Cruel, cutting, and insensitive but nevertheless right. Valerie laughed but it was a hollow one.

"Humans…" she said slowly, "We are not really decent creatures." Then his gaze caught something, something green.

He sighed and bowed his head. Suddenly he felt spent, drained. He'd expected something like this was coming, he really had. But still…it wasn't supposed to come to this.

"So…where is he?" she demanded.

"Caracas…I even managed to find out the name of the clinic he runs." That made her still her movements. He sighed again. "Really, are you testing me to see when I will challenge you for what you're doing or do you hope I will just let you do?"

She stopped, straightened. "Both, I think." She turned around, her left hand holding a small gun. She raised it.

"Where did you find it?"

"Sean. When I visited him. I couldn't wander in this town with no protection, as you have already seen why."

"I listened to all of your conversations."

"Listened? Yes. But saw, no." Then he remembered those sounds that he had presumed to be leather stretching. She picked up the bag full of his money and hung it over one shoulder. "I was hoping I didn't need to use it, well, at least not in such a case but—"She let out a small sigh. "Would you believe me if I say I'm sorry?"

He took a step forward and blocked her way out. She raised the gun higher threateningly. "Get out of my way." He didn't mind her and kept on walking slowly. "I'll shoot, _don't_ think I wouldn't."

"Do you understand that I could disarm you easily even before you can try to pull the trigger?"

She took a step back. "Bruce—I warn you—don't get any closer."

"You won't shoot," he stated calmly and stopped when his chest was inches apart from the gun. He looked at her eyes. "You won't shoot." She couldn't, she hadn't left him behind, despite of herself, despite her justifications, she hadn't.

Then she snapped, she finally snapped. "Bruce Wayne, what kind of idiot you are! Are you really this much _desperately_ blinded by hope?" She waved her gun at him. "Don't you see? Don't you understand? I—what Ronnie said…what he said—" Her gaze found his and Bruce was momentarily struck by her gleaming eyes, blazed like a newly raised sun reflecting over the edge of a blade, fractured on the surface. "I did all of those things and, worse, much worse, and I don't regret any of it. You think you know me? _Think again_!"

"I know you enough to know that you won't pull the trigger." Bruce took a step forward, even amazing himself. "You don't need this. I won't stop you. If you want out, you can go. And you're free to go with the money as well. He's running a clinic called Caramacor."

First she dropped her arm and then her head. "I'm—sorry," she said as she passed him, heading towards the door.

"I trusted you," he called after her.

She faltered in front of the door. "You just want me to stay for that ridiculous school project of yours."

"Does it matter? Whatever my reasons are, I've trusted you. I've believed in you."

The bag slipped down over her shoulder. The world was spinning again, and she grabbed the door handle for stability, held it forcefully like it was her only anchor in this strange world. Images assaulted her mind.

Bruce sitting beside his car looking at her at that fateful day when her life had turned upside down; Bruce giving her his coat when he had come to collect her at a warehouse, his lips slightly tilted up with a reassuring smile; Bruce giving her unreadable glances when he felt she wasn't looking…but Bruce Wayne, always him. If she only could open that door, if only she could set a foot out, she knew she would be free. Free of his expectations, free of his delusions, free of—him. Yet her hand was still stuck on the handle, not listening to her will.

She turned back to look at him. Standing in the middle of the room, looking at her with that strange gaze, he was different, she knew he was. She couldn't exactly say how, even with obvious facts, but she had tried, tried so many times, and failed, each time.

They stared at each other for a while then he finally pointed at her, smiling a little shy smile. "You'd better stand aside from the door. Alfred could come in any minute."

She felt a faint blush—a blush, a freaking blush—rising up on her cheeks. "Yeah," she sidestepped, and looked at bag on the floor. She picked it up. "Well, I presume you'd want this back—"She hesitated as raising the gun, "and this, of course."

"Keep the money for your doctor, I'll take the gun."

She walked over and offered it to him. He took it, and slid it through the back of trousers. He then grabbed her by shoulders. Surprised again with another intimate action, she looked back up at him. "When we've returned home safely, I'll deal with Ronnie. I promise."

She stared back at him. Home… there was no home… only places she hang around, places she hopped around. One part of her mind, the part that owned her survival instincts screamed 'RUN' as clearly as any sub-conscious messages went but her feet still remained planted on the floor.

She was overwhelmed; felt she was going to explode, was going to burst open; all these unfamiliar feelings, and _those_ familiar ones finally overpowering her. She broke free of his grip, and ran to bathroom. It had become a sort of routine.

* * *

Bruce stared, unable to tear his gaze away from the bathroom door she slipped behind. Events had come one after another, tripling each other; the pleasure cruise had warped into a trip inside a fear tunnel. But she had stayed. Last time, she had opened the door and stopped, this time she couldn't even get herself to open it. He let himself smile a little victorious smile. She had stayed, stayed because of him, because of his—belief.

Of course, even now when he was under influence of a sudden bolt of triumph and relief; he knew that she was still unstable, and this—whatever it was—could still end tremendously in tears but it didn't matter. She had stayed, and for now that was all that mattered.

Ten minutes later, she had come out of her lair, looking in control of herself again. "Before we turn back, I need to retrieve something."

All of the curious wanderings of his mind came to a halt. He narrowed his eyes. "What kind of thing?" he questioned. This place was dangerous to her; he saw that clearly now, and not just because there were a couple of mob bosses wanting to teach her some manners. It was foolish of her to even come back here. Had she really been that desperate? Bruce wouldn't have guessed. Even now, after everything that happened, she still managed to look—collected.

"Um, the personal kind," she fidgeted. "I don't think I'll return here again. Well, and I think I should have that back…it's—"She paused and grimaced, "—sentimental." She added after his hardened face. "No funny things, I promise."

He nodded. "Okay. Tell me where it's and I'll retrieve it."

She folded her arms under her breast. "I—"

"Valerie, don't." He cut her off before she could start. He hadn't raised his voice but still it had a warning edge. She unfolded her arms.

"Okay, okay," she sighed out, "It's probably a better idea anyway," she shrugged off, "A deposit box at the train station. Box 2345, password is 4532. Inside there is a medium size box, bring it to me."

He nodded. "Alfred should return soon. I won't be long. I hope to leave tonight," he said walking toward the door. "Then we will see what we are going to do next."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six:**

* * *

The smuggler flight Alfred had arranged for the first trip was a small cargo plane. It was scheduled to take them back to the west coast, where they would have to wait till midnight for another plane to back to Gotham. Bruce had insisted that they took a circular road to home, to make their tracks as untraceable as possible. There weren't any seats on board so they were sitting on floor. He had sent Alfred to the cockpit, beside the pilot, where the only other seat could be found. Alfred had resisted first but when he had seen Bruce's set jaw, he had realized he could better argue with stone than with him.

Alfred cast a glance backwards. The young woman and his charge were sitting next to each other, him looking at her, while she held a metal box between her hands and did her best ignore him. Alfred was still wary of the young woman, but there was one undeniable truth: however unintentional it was, and even though this trip had turned out more than what they had bargained for, she had distracted Master Bruce out of his stark and deadly mood.

The last six months had been hard for everyone. Alfred still remembered those days, wondering each night if he would come back or if it would be the end. Since the day that Master Bruce had decided to don the Batman mantle, Alfred had learned what all of the families, friends and comrades of soldiers and warriors of any kind in the world knew by heart: every night, every step he took out of his safe harbor could be his last and he may never return at all. That kind of knowledge had a strange effect on the definition of a relationship. Soon this young woman would learn what Bruce Wayne was really asking of her.

The problem was that Alfred wasn't sure if she was capable of giving it.

* * *

Valerie looked at the box between her hands and cast a sideway glance to Bruce who was looking expectantly at her. She run her finger around the lock, twisted the key, and opened it. His eyes lowered, "Trinkets?" and he asked, his tone a little disappointed.

She laughed. "What were you expecting? Treasure?"

Bruce stayed silent for a while then lifted her eyes up at her. "These are the gifts your father mentioned. You didn't throw them away."

She shrugged. "Nothing but worthless trinkets to buy my affections, still…" She let out a loaded sigh. "I've not _always_ been quite successful in disowning blood ties." She paused. "You have been pestering me to grieve, and I think it's—you know—" she trailed off with another shrug.

He looked at her in amazement. Damn it. She really hadn't meant to manipulate him, but looking backward she could easily see it as blunt act of manipulation. Well, it was unintentional. And judging by the look he was giving her, she could openly see it was also working just fine. So easy, she thought, disappointed. Her fingers took a small folded photograph out and she opened it. A young girl barely in her twenties was looking gloomily at the lenses wearing a familiar orange outfit; a serial of numbers the only thing indicating her. A usual quick snapshot from the police archives. Her index finger made a trail along the girl's face. "She's my mother," she said. "It's the only photo of her I could find."

Bruce peered at the photo closely. "She's beautiful."

With her looks just like a junkie, that was a lie, of course, but Valerie didn't feel like objecting. "Yes, yes, she was."

Her gaze caught something inside and she put down the photo. Slowly as if she was afraid to touch it, she took out a small blue pouch. She opened it and emptied what was inside onto her open palm—a small whirling seashell. She smiled, and Bruce was momentarily struck.

He had seen many smiles from her before; suggestive, mocking, facetious, daring, challenging, all-knowing, but not like this, this one was so genuine, and held something very close to, he was surprised to see, happiness. She brought it closer to her nose, took a deep breath in and with closed eyes gave the tip of it a quick kiss.

Captivated, he watched the strange action. With that smile and with that expression on her face she looked beautiful. He didn't even understand how beautiful she could be. Yes, she was always seductive, dangerously sexy but he had never seen her like this, dared he say, innocent. Suddenly he was reminded of Rachel, her smiles, the ones she gave him when she wasn't so constantly disappointed in him. Yes, he had somehow always found ways to disappoint her but she was going to wait for him. She was going to… A pang of guilt and woe, and a feeling of loss shaper than any knife, cut his heart like it always did whenever he thought about her. He wondered if he was ever going to be able to think of her again without that sharp cutting feeling piercing through his soul.

Valerie placed the seashell delicately inside its velvet pouch, and put it back again inside the box. Then her fingers began to rummage through the box's other contents, and then her smile grew wider, wilder as she held a dangling bracelet triumphantly between her fingers. Its fake gold had been peeled off through the years and where there would have once been sparkling stones, now were only voids. She turned her attention back to him. "When Jason came to see me the first time, he gave this to me." She curled the old bracelet around her finger, biting her bottom lip. "I was so excited…" She smiled again, looking at him. "Other than the little hideous sweaters Cathleen had the staff give us at Christmas, no one had ever given me anything before…" A cloud shadowed her face. "Stupid bitch," she muttered under her breath.

"What?" he asked confused.

"Nothing—no one of importance," And her smile pulled into a cruel smirk, even wilder, the look of innocence was entirely gone and she looked more dangerous than ever. "I made sure of it."

Bruce felt himself getting uneasy again. "The man who had kidnapped you," he said. It was something Alfred had said to him days ago; about the time they had their infamous talk in the stair's hall; and it had been nudging his mind ever since.

"Danny?"

His eyes narrowed as his suspicions grew louder in his mind.

"What about him?"

"You knew him, didn't you? Before the accident."

She dropped the bracelet from her fingers and looked at him curtly. So much for manipulating him. "Why do you always insist to ask questions whose answers you already know?"

"Because you always tell me things in halves."

"I didn't tell you because I didn't think it was _relevant_," she shot his words back at him. Bruce was about to reply but she cut him off with a waving hand. "And seriously all things considered, we had just met. I was still afraid that you'd throw me into some pit and be done with it. It didn't seem best option to say 'hey, by the way, the man who had tried to kidnap me to sell to the mob that swore to take you down was the younger brother of one of my old marks who loved me platonically when he was a kid. But hey, the con didn't work out as we had expected, and the big brother ended up in a prison where he later died." She gave out a deep sigh. "What would you do if I had said that?"

When Bruce only looked at her, she sighed again. "Well, it was a _busy_ summer." She made a sound. "It was my first—job. I kind of made it into a mess."

He wasn't surprised, not really; she seemed to have a special ability to make things into a mess. "How old were you then?"

She ran her gaze away, "Fifteen."

He opened his mouth again but she didn't let him talk. "Don't. I'm gonna sit here and looked at my—" She gulped. "—Jason's gifts. I really don't want to talk about his shortcomings in parenthood," she talked fast, her mouth barely keeping up with the pace of her words. "And if we were to make a list about why he makes such a bad father figure, that mess with Danny might barely make it into the top-ten."

Bruce didn't take all of her not-so-subtle hints. "He called you Valerie."

"For god's sake, Bruce, give it a rest."

He simply looked at her. She laughed humorlessly. "You don't even know that concept, do you? Yes, Bruce, he called me Valerie. As you already noticed, he also called me stupid pet names but not an actual name until I provided him one. And when he called me Sarah, I realized something was off…."

"It started like a game when he first came to visit me," she started to relate. "He gave me this bracelet and called me Sarah. I said to him that I hated that name so he asked me what I wished it to be. And I said… Amy. Then the next time it was something else because I no longer wanted to be Amy. It went on like this." She wiped the unshed tears out of eyes. "I'm going to fucking kick you in your fucking balls if you make me cry."

Unaffected by her sudden choice of vulgar language, he inquired further. "But why didn't you want to be Sarah?"

She gave him a hard look. "Seriously, haven't you ever heard of a thing called psychology? Do I need to spell everything out for you? What do _you_ think?" She stood up, the box still in her hands. She shook her head, "Idiot."

She sat on the ground across from him as he looked at her. What kind a father could do that to his own child? If she had been open about it, he would have never insisted—but she had been open about it, in her unique way; throwing a tantrum before she admitted she didn't want to see him, then when he was finally convinced, she demanded that they find him. Because… He remembered the time he had hugged her in Egypt. Stupid, so stupid—all of this, just to prove a point to him.

He hadn't planned to hug her, looking backward, he wasn't even sure why he had done it, it seemed like a knee-jerk reaction… the way she had looked, the way she had said she hadn't wanted to see him again, that vulnerability—it was authentic. He had wanted to—had just wanted to—truthfully, he wasn't sure what he had wanted to do.

Alfred had been right, once again. They should have never looked for the man. The question—the question came to the tip of his tongue and he almost asked, but giving her a side glance, he kept his silence.

Instead, he walked to her. She didn't raise her head, just kept going through her trinkets. "May I?" he asked gently, pointing to the necklace in her hand.

"No," she answered coldly.

He settled beside her silently.

"Go away," she growled. "I'm still pissed at you."

He gave out a faint, hollow laugh at the absurdity of their situation. A second later, she accompanied him. "So fucked up," she muttered to herself and he had to agree with that statement. "Why aren't we going directly to Caracas? The sooner this ends, the happier I'll be."

He gave her a look. "I don't make the same mistake twice." If she thought they would ever again meet one of her acquaintances without _his_ reconnaissance first, she was dead wrong.

She made a face but didn't provoke him further. They sat in silence a little while and he didn't attempt to break it again. Unexpectedly, she was first to talk. "It seemed like a good plan at the time," she said causally, "I mean, anywhere was better than Cathleen's little mockery of a warm home."

"Was it really bad?"

"It could have been worse, I guess," she answered, shrugging. "It was always 'do this Sarah, don't do that Sarah'… you know, the usual, '_don't be a bad girl or you'll go to there._'" She mimicked a hysterical tone, dropping her head back with a thud. "_Such a bad girl you are… you will be burned for eternity because of your insubordination; what a girl, no wonder your mother died because of your stubbornness._"

Beside her, Bruce grew tense, she noticed. Or more tense than usual, it was difficult to say with him. She weighed probing his action further but she realized it would be better to leave it for another time. She pushed it to back of her mind.

Then with a small voice, he asked tentatively, "Do you ever regret your decision?"

"Does it matter? Regret? Given the chance, you would choose exactly the same?" She shook her head. "No, Bruce, I don't regret nor second guess my choices."

They sat in silence for the rest of the trip.

* * *

She had expected his uneasiness to lessen as soon as they set a foot in Gotham, the day after, but judging by the expression on his face and the lines above his eyebrows, it only grew in intensity. She mulled over the conversation from the cargo plane and wondered again, why she had told him that _stuff_ in the first place, which was a question that frankly, she didn't have any answer for.

Was she getting bloody _sentimental_ after all?

She grimaced. He had expected her to have regrets. Why, she wasn't sure. She didn't have regrets, some possibly would even say that she wasn't capable of experiencing such an emotion and she certainly didn't second guess her choices—but still, sometimes, when the loneliness of the stark hours of the coldest nights got the better of her, she thought of _ possibilities_. She wondered how her life would have been if she had stayed with Cathleen, if she hadn't left Michael, wondered if she would have been happy at all. But those thoughts belonged to those lone dark hours, not to the daylight, to be uttered out as wishful thinking. She knew dreams for dreams. And life—life was reality. It had no cares for your dreams, for your hopes, for your regrets; life just happened, it went on.

And she had learned that it was simply best for people to go on, too. No, she didn't have any regrets; she didn't _let_ herself, that path had no end. She kept things simple. She'd made her bed a long time ago, and was more than prepared to lie within it.

She tilted her head upwards. Gotham's nightscape was strikingly beautiful. The full moon was high, the velvet sky sparkling with stars over the Palisades, and across from the wealthy neighborhood laid the city itself, the faint lights twinkling over the thin mist, giving the impression of a city full with life, hiding the truth behind its gleaming facade.

The truth though was painfully obvious to her. Over the three weeks she had spent in the Manor, even though Bruce hadn't let her leave the grounds even once, she had seen Gotham's true face over Bruce's, and on the countless nameless face of others she saw on the news every night. They were trying to hide it, were doing their best to ignore it; building new things, trying to wipe out the Joker's prints, trying to make Gotham a better place but as far as she saw, every attempt was falling short.

Gotham, slowly, painfully, was dying, from the inside out, rotting.

She flicked her eyes toward Bruce, who was still watching her from the steps of his manor, with an unfamiliar expression on his face—like he was measuring her for something. Out of blue, he grabbed her hand, took a few steps forward and his gaze grew even more intense, more than possible. For one second, one long second, she thought crazily that he was going to kiss her. Her pulse accelerated with the anticipation as a sudden rush swept over her veins. Then the moment passed as quickly as it had happened and his face relaxed into his standard starkness. He nodded, as if to himself. "Come," he pulled her inside. "There is something I want you to see."

He only let go of her hand when they entered the main salon on the second floor. It was an enormous one, full of furniture that screamed wealth and power, the walls and corners adorned with priceless artifacts (she recognized a familiar antique Roman statue) and paintings (she assumed originals), and a graceful grand piano was settled at the far edge of the room, stationed at such an angle that it could see all the rest of the room. She had spent three weeks at the mansion but she had never seen this place before.

Bruce stalked over the piano with a graceful pace, like a tiger approaching his prey and leaning over it, he pressed his fingers on the keys playing a strong yet short tune. Her eyes widening, she watched as the panel on the backside of the room slid to reveal some sort of lift.

He straightened and looked at her again. He didn't speak further and he didn't need to. He got inside in the lift and dutifully she followed him.

She hadn't known exactly what to expect for his base of operations but she was sure that the big, no, huge, no, no, _gigantic_ cave wouldn't have been in her imaginary list. She looked around, astonished.

About three hundred feet away from her, a mass of high-tech computers with touch-screens were stationed on the wall, with Alfred already seated in the chair before them. Next to the computers, there were several big scanners and a lot of technological equipment, with uses she couldn't figure out merely by looking. Across the main hub, on the left side there was a working site, full of benches, and shelves of constructions tools. To the right, starkly contrasting the rest of the cave, there was a field infirmary, in glowing white. She heard the distant sounds of water and turned around to see a waterfall in the farthest corner of the left side of the cave. Then she noticed something else, and perked up her ears to find its source. Recognizing faintly the sound of wings above, she looked up and narrowed her eyes. Bats, there were bats up in the heights, hundreds of them. She blinked several times.

"Alfred?" Bruce questioned his accomplice with only one word.

The old man nodded. "Everything seems running just fine, sir."

That broke her stupor. She snapped her head to him. "Are you going out?"

Bruce nodded.

She glanced down at her watch and worked over the time differences. She frowned. There was only a few hours left until dawn broke. "It's too late."

"I was away far too long." He turned to punch a key on the panel behind him. A massive long closet emerged from the ground. He punched another key to open it, and his armor under dim fluorescent light appeared. He stepped on inside and turned back toward them as the door slid over him. "Alfred, show her police lines, frequencies and the trackers."

Valerie arched an eyebrow at Alfred. He nodded at her then gestured with his hand toward the hub center. "Miss Valerie."

Grinning, she clapped her hands. At last, action. "Lead the way, darling."

He led her toward the left side and settled her on a high chair in front of the desk. His aged finger pointed at the screen on the cave wall. There were countless green dots moving back and forth across the screen as a sole red dot stayed motionless up high on the left side, where the Palisade was, she noticed. She frowned. "So the red dot is Bruce," she remarked then pointed the greens. "What about them?"

"Policemen we have managed to track so far," Alfred explained. "Mr. Fox's R&D department have developed a face recognition protocol for the police force and a software to transfer the results over a Gotham map in real time."

This kind of surveillance would require massive amount of eyes to work. "Did you hack into the security cameras across the city?"

Alfred smiled.

She drew in a breath, impressed. "I think Bruce mentioned something about lines and frequencies."

Alfred picked up an earpiece and offered it to her. "We monitor incoming calls and police frequencies as well." She turned the little thing between her fingers. "I assume tonight Master Wayne will only need to make a routine patrol across the city so we won't be looking for anything particular but it's always wiser to expect trouble than wish not to have it."

Valerie laughed. "Hope for the best, plan for the worst; so all of your surprises will be pleasant ones."

"That's our motto, Miss."

She hit him on the arm playfully. "Nah… don't be like that. We're now what—" She threw him a wink, "—partners in crime?"

Alfred merely stared at her in a peculiar way, and then Valerie discovered who Bruce had inherited that particular look from.

"Put the earpiece on," a deep, guttural, harsh voice grated behind her, and she jumped.

She turned around and it took all of her self-control not to gape at him. Oh, boy…if she had ever thought Bruce Wayne couldn't make a more menacing figure, well, she was wrong. Massive, bulking, completely in dark, the man she had seen glimpses so many times over the three weeks was nothing—nothing beside this—beast.

She had never seen something that reflected so little light all in her life. The matte surface of his armor absorbed all the light and gave none, the cape shaped the darkness, his mask set his mouth perpetually to a grim line, and she knew that _had to_ be a conscious choice, Bruce Wayne, as stark as he could get, never looked this...horrifying. He was a bulk of sharp edges, emitting a barely controlled vehement vigor, indestructible, and suddenly next to him, she felt fragile and weak, like a statue of glass that could be shattered with the first tremor. And when she ever thought herself _fragile_?

Collecting herself, she suppressed the urge to shudder, instead forced her lips into a mocking smile. "Nice-outfit," but despite her efforts, her voice came out a hoarse whisper, shaking. Then he gave her that stupid faint smile, one corner of his flattened lips slightly quirked up, and for a moment, he looked closer to the Bruce Wayne she knew. Against her better judgment, she found herself relaxing. "I've always liked to see men in uniform."

He ignored the comment, and didn't smile further, as she had expected.

* * *

God, it was boring.

Who could have guessed that her first night as Batman's accomplice would be so…uneventful? And who could have guessed that the police frequencies could be this boring too? She had always regarded the policemen that ordered each other to bring donuts and coffee over the radio as a Hollywood myth and hearing it with her own ears somehow was so very disturbing.

She listened to complaint after complaint (what kind of mind could call the police to complain about her neighbors because they made too much sex noise) and pranksters and drunk-dialers who thought making fun of the police was a hilarious idea (no, it was not) and an endless stream of gossip, all while the green dots stayed dutifully away from their beloved red. What happened to all those fabled criminals of Gotham? Had they decided to give up for today by some twist of twisted fate?

"Any news?" _Batman's_ harsh hiss was loud and clear in her ear.

"Well, other than the fact that Mrs. Laurent is giving the poor Lt. the no-sex-treatment because he's failed to give her that diamond ring for their tenth anniversary, no news on the western front," she answered then continued, "But my money says Mrs. Laurent will see her dear ring at the end of month when it's her birthday. He was quite… frustrated. Oh! By the way, red leader, most of the force believes Major Montoya swings that way too," her voice turned into a lazy snarl, "Smart girl."

"Stop with nonsense, Valerie!"

"It's blue wing, red leader," she hissed through her teeth.

He gave his answer with a very masterful _silence_. "Come on, _Bruce_, don't be like this. It's fun."

"I—"His growling was interrupted by her.

"Shut up," the mischief dropped off her tone instantly as she pressed her ear with her forefinger. "Have an incoming call." Her hands flew over the keyboard. "A report of a rape attempt by an eyewitness. I think it's near your location."

"Send me the dots and location."

"Coming… online…"she punched the 'enter' key. "Location: West End, 2nd street. It's two blocks away from you. All the surrounding areas seem to be clean."

The next a flapping sound assaulted her ear, and she made a face. She peeked at the map with narrowed eyes, noting that it needed to be updated to show the name of every single street in the city. She could see the West End on the screen but couldn't figure out where in the hell 2nd street was. "Are you there?"

"Requesting radio silence, _blue wing_."

She rolled her eyes with a slight shake of head. "Whatever. Just save the girl."

There was a heavy thud over line and a forceful bang as background noises spilled over the line. A man screamed followed by the sounds of a fight, flesh meeting flesh, and the breaking of bones.

Then, merely a few seconds after it started, there was silence, and underneath it the sounds of the girl's frightened whimpering and Bruce's faint, almost-not-there breathing. Valerie let out her breath, which she didn't even remember holding. The girl's chanted 'thank you's' reached her. "I hope you've put an end to the prospect of their procreation in the future, painfully," she bit off the last part. "Your gene pool is already screwed up as it is. No need to muck it up further."

To her surprise, this time he answered her, "Done."

She chuckled. Well, hadn't that felt good?

* * *

Feeling his obsessive compulsion satiated at least for tonight, Bruce returned. Jumping down from the bat pod, his hand already started to take off his cowl, he was greeted by a hopping Valerie with burst of energy and a bottle of champagne within her clutch.

He stared at her. She laughed, taking a big sip from her bottle. "Wasn't I wonderful?" She shook her head. "No…scratch that—wasn't I _amazing?_" She pointed him with her bottle. "Admit it."

"You were good," he replied tersely, and started to walk to the workbench.

She fell beside him, following him, "Nonsense, I was amazing. I just saved a poor girl."

"You were sitting here the whole time," he pointed out.

She gave him a filthy look. "Who was pulling out that call through that gibberish, huh? If it weren't for me, you would have stayed up there, brooding, and doing nothing."

He pulled out several wet napkins from a drawer of the workbench and started to wipe off the black grease paint under his eyes. Tonight wasn't about doing something big, and preventing one rape attempt was—trivial in the sense of the bigger picture. It was just a number less into the other hundreds that were added to the statistics. Tonight, though, was about routine, a patrol to remind everyone that this was still his city and he was back. He was _always_ going to be back. Yet it was still good that it had accomplished something. He nodded to her, throwing the napkins into the waste bin. "Like I said, you were good."

And she had been. Truthfully, she was even better than what he had expected. Despite all of her nonsensical chatter, when she had been needed, she had been all professional, and had managed to pick up the call, as she had said, through all of that gibberish. Monitoring all the calls and frequencies within the ten-codes wasn't as easy as it seemed and it always required a bulletproof concentration, skills, and knowledge. Skills and knowledge he had been sure she had; concentration not so much. It was one of those times that he liked to be proven wrong. She was very capable, besides she looked… happy.

With a genuine smile on her lips, her face faintly flushed, and eyes gleaming even in the shadows of the cave, she indeed seemed happy. It was hard to remember now she was the same red-lipped-devil who had been about to leave her father's dead body to a mob boss who wanted to kill her after a good session of teaching her manners; the girl who had pointed a gun at him, with every intention of shooting.

But she hadn't… she couldn't. That woman wasn't entirely her, there was more to her. Bruce feverishly hoped that that more would be enough too.

His gaze found Alfred above her shoulder as the older man watched them with wary eyes.

* * *

She entered the main guest room, humming faintly to herself. So it was true what they said about helping people. She could literally feel the so called, good feelings wiggling around deep in stomach. Whoever said that she had issues with empathy?

God, she had saved a girl from a very unpleasant fate tonight. She had saved one and strangely it had made her want to save, or at least help, _others_ as well. Was that what compelled Bruce to go out every night again and again even though everyone basically begged him to stop doing so? In that exact moment, Valerie thought, she could understand. It—this feeling, this rush—could be very addictive.

Boy… what a day… what a day it had been. And this was only the first day back from—Then suddenly she stilled like someone had hit her in the heart, her breath caught in her throat, her body contracted as if she was in physical pain, and her face twisted in agony. Not being able to support herself, she bent down to grab…something—anything, and when her grasp came up with naught she stumbled down on the floor like a an empty sack. God, her father had died a day ago and she had forgotten, not for fleeting moment but entirely and completely had forgotten it. Jesus, what kind person could do that?

Could be that Cathleen had been right about her all along? Bad girl, bad seed. No wonder no one wanted her. No—no, Michael had wanted her, Michael… her one way ticket out and she had left him cold, not even saying a proper goodbye. What kind of person she was… just like Jason, just like him she was, her dead father, the one she couldn't even bring herself to mourn properly. Her gaze caught the reflection on the cheval glass in front of her but instead of seeing herself in its depths, she saw Cathleen, clad all in black with that disgusting look on her face. _Just like him, bad seed, that's what you are, girl, a bad seed_. She threw herself at the mirror.

Cathleen was laughing at her now, that derisive sound cutting into her flesh. She saw blood running, hundreds of Cathleen's laughing, scorning, belittling her from every shattered piece. A guttural scream ripped itself out of her throat, howling as the world was painted in red, and her fists destroyed every broken piece.

Then strong arms pulled her out, clenched her tightly in between. She fought them, because she always did; screaming, kicking, struggling, she couldn't stop, if she did, she would get caught. Someone barked out something… then something burned her, from inside out, she was on fire… God, oh dear God, it was eternal flame, and she was going to burn for all eternity.

Then she fell, through darkness, and was lost in her own customized hell.

* * *

_It's the same dream every night, in every sleep, him lost in the darkness, lying on his mattress, legs swung on the side of the bed, his feet bare, and chilled under the cold tiles, eyes searching, waiting. And every night she comes, smiling, and each time, light follows her; she pulls the sheet over them, the dark linens turn to white; and there is light, more light. "I love you," he whispers as her fingertips run along his features, her touch even colder against his cold skin. When she cries her tears freeze._

_He misses her every day, every night, every hour, every instant..._

_Then suddenly as it happens in dreams, she comes, dark hair, green eyes, gleaming, and smiling that smile; lips pulling up with delight, "Are you afraid to be left behind?"_

_And he looks at her, and whispers. 'Yes.'_

_Then she is gone too, and he is alone, in the darkness, waiting…_ It was the sounds of shattering glass that woke him, in the thin light before dawn.

Bruce breathed in silently, disturbed by the ominous dream, wondering if it had come to the worst, that he was caught, then upon hearing a guttural scream of agony, he jolted up, realizing it didn't matter. But it wasn't coming from Alfred's room, it wasn't coming from his room, it was coming from his main guestroom.

He ran.

She was… a bleeding frenzy. Bruce cursed as he ran toward her.

He wrapped her tightly in his arms, and she fought him as his grip on her became tighter. "Sedatives," he barked to Alfred as the older man ran inside the room in a dressing robe. "Bring sedatives."

After Alfred gave her a dose, she went slowly limp between his arms. With dazzled eyes, she looked at him and he wondered what she was seeing. How could she have come to this? Regardless of his anxiety, half an hour ago she had been genuinely happy. He was sure of it.

* * *

She felt awful, as if all of her body had been drained, and her brain felt shriveled, as if it had left under cruel desert sun for days. And she felt like an idiot. Her eyelids fluttered open as the newly risen sun assaulted her senses through the open windows. All was in silence save the bird's annoying morning chirping and the faint rush of wind through the branches in the Wayne grove. God, what an idiot…

She closed and re-opened her eyes to clear the cobwebs in her mind… and saw her hands in bandages. Slowly she straightened and rose up from the bed.

"Take it easy," Bruce's casual tone came from somewhere behind her.

She turned half around and scowled. He wasn't in his self-appointed seat like usual, instead he was standing against the wall furthest from her bed. She grunted under her breath, and thank God for small miracles, made it until the bathroom without slumping to the floor.

With dread, she looked into the mirror and cringed at what she saw. What a mess… what a bloody mess… but looking on the bright side, at least it was her own reflection again.

She sighed. Living with Bruce Wayne had proven to be more inconvenient than she had expected; she had never worried about how badly she'd lost it before. Normally when she did, there was none to see it. She had had to live with a quite an impressive number of people before but dealing with her… distress had never been a problem. Then again, her life had been never this kind of fucked up before. She shook her head. No, that wasn't quite true either, and she had managed to get through it.

She relieved herself, washed her face, brushed her teeth, and after a second thought hopped in the shower. Warm, miraculous water ran down over her body. _You went through worse_, _much worse,_ _and got yourself back together_, she told herself again. But she felt… lost. What happened to that lost girl in the woods, she tried to remember. Devoured; yes, devoured by the big bad wolf.

Cathleen had used to tell her that story like an ominous prediction; _'don't stray off the path, girl, or else you'd be devoured for that's the price you have to pay for straying off the path."_

Michael used to tell her the turned-to-dust facts behind it, its mechanics, while holding her between his arms, his eyes looking at her warmly, his voice eager, their hands tangled as he kissed the pulse on her wrist;

_"Never just one story, you know. A thousand stories, a thousand once upon a times, happily ever after's and that's why little princesses have to lay to be woken and little girls have to stay out of the woods; all interweaving and intertwining and…well—"_

_"Well?"_

_"Well, I was going to say 'intercoursing', but that's not exactly a word, is it? Copulating! Yes, copulating. Because you take stories, you rub them together hard enough, shoot off a few sparks, and eventually a whole host of new stories are born, and they're the same princesses and lost little girls and hungry wolves, but they're entirely different. Evolution—Why is it that whenever I talk to you, suddenly everything is about sex?"_

_"I can't imagine."_

Her father didn't tell her that story or any fairy tales for that matter but he had told her other stories. And the lost girls in his tales weren't lost girls, they were she-wolves but they had always saved themselves because a little lost girl wasn't a little lost girl only when she was a wolf.

She emerged out of the bathroom, wearing an over-sized bath robe, and found Bruce still waiting for her against the wall, hands shoved into his pockets, his face clouded… with worry.

She sighed… With the corner of her eyes, she looked for the mirror she had broken last night. It was gone but it left a blank spot on the wall, which made it look even more out of place than if the broken mirror had still hung there.

She slumped back on the seat and changing their places, Bruce sat on the edge of the bed. "You're not well," Bruce said then, not mincing the words but his voice was even, not cold or tense. He must be really worried, she thought grimacing. "It's not a good idea go to Caracas now. You should… should get yourself together first."

She didn't reply immediately, instead pondered it for a while. "No," she said at last.

"You're unstable, inconsistent," he countered with the same even tone, "Not strong enough to get through such a surgery. And I'm not talking about physically. Your face will change forever, do you understand what that means? Do you believe you can really deal with it?"

Her eyes burned and she furiously blinked tears back. "Yes, you're right," she said, "I'm… losing control. I won't deny it as it won't accomplish anything after last night. Too many things happened and I got lost through it." She pointed the blank space at the wall. "Look at it. You removed the mirror to put me at ease. But it made it even worse." She stood up, and started pacing. "It left a blank space on the wall; much too bright, much too pristine, not faded enough to match the rest of it. It stands out. And that was the first thing that popped into my mind when I looked at it. _That's_, Bruce, my state of mind." She threw her arms into air, "But it doesn't matter. All of it doesn't matter." Her voice raised an octave as she noticed with dread that she was close to yet another episode. _Fuck!_ She paused, drawing in a deep breath, and ignored her trembling hands. "I might not have enough strength, you're right, but I still need to get through it, I can't—stop now."

"Valerie—"

"No, listen to me," she said curtly as she sat down again. "You could hide me in your cave and I could play your faithful sidekick if we had time. But we don't, a clock is ticking somewhere. Sean knows why I went back. So it's best to assume Ronnie knows it too."

Bruce's face hardened. "I questioned Sean, he didn't sell you out."

Valerie bit her lip. She had suspected Sean (it was a logical assumption) but Bruce seemed determinate. And she was sure, especially after she had seen it with her own eyes, how intimidating he could be if he had been thorough enough. The smuggler wouldn't have lied to him. But the problem was that Ronnie could get thorough too. "He might have learned of my visit through other means." She nodded, and tried not to think of Jason. "But it doesn't detract from my point much. He must know I visited Sean, so he will make a visit to him too. I—misjudged Ronnie's _affection_ for me," she confessed. "When I decided to return, I thought he couldn't—kill me; he tried it before but couldn't bring himself do it. Now that he's pulled the trigger, there will be no stopping for him."

Pushing the news down, suppressing his urge to yell at her for her recklessness, Bruce shook his head. "I've already got the clinic under surveillance with a Wayne satellite. It's clear."

"Yes," she exclaimed with agitation, shaking her hands. "That's why we have to hurry up and finish this. Because it won't be clear for too long. It's _my_ last chance. I have to act quickly. I know things about Ronnie and his family, and their business. You could hack into their computers and muck things up to get the police on their tail. It wouldn't be hard; they've been looking for an opening for far too long that would let them throw them in a cell. Meanwhile, I will deal with Christian."

"I've already started to take care of Ronnie's family, as I promised." His intense gaze caught Valerie unexpected. "They've got an incoming shipment in the next week, after that they won't be a problem again for a long time." His tone softened considerably, "You don't need to worry about Ronnie. Just wait a little while, getting your strengthen back, and then we will find the doctor."

It seemed logical, so logical… only; she shook her head. "Word I'm looking for Christian will be on streets within days. They might not guess why, but they will know where to look for me." She turned her gaze. "Ronnie… _and_ his father, well, they are not the only people who would like to teach me a few—_manners_." She paused. "I must retreat to a discreet location after the operation and take all of evidence—photos, operation notes, entries and journals—off with me. And I'm afraid, in this point, we will also need to _terrorize_ Christian a little bit." She gave him a pointed look. "I'm trusting you with that last part."

In return, he gave her a hard look. He didn't speak though and she decided to stir things up a little. Raising her legs to the bed, she put them just beside his left one. "What scares you more, Bruce? Me breaking to a point where I won't be able to function as you wish me to or that I'll be broken enough to _manage_ to run away?"

Startled, his head snapped to her; his carefully schooled expression turned to discomfort. Ah, she had shot blindly but apparently she had hit a sore spot. He was out of his comfort zone. He didn't speak at first, then diplomatically said, "I worry about you."

"_Don't_," she answered simply, not giving an inch. "We made a bargain, and I demand you keep your end of it."

"I'll keep it, that's not changed."

"_Now," _she replied, "I want it now. When a girl needs help, she needs it today, not tomorrow." She paused, "And I need your… support, Bruce, not your worry."

That was blunt, she knew, but also necessary. Bruce seemed to gather it too as he stood up and nodded to her. "Okay, if that's what you wish. I'll arrange the details."

* * *

Three days later, she was packing a small bag for herself. Deliberately she avoided looking in any mirror in fear that she would turn in a sobbing mess yet again. After their talk, Bruce had given up pestering her and had given back the personal space she needed desperately by leaving her alone, to do whatever he was doing in the daylight and then patrolling the city at night. He hadn't asked her to come into cave again either and she was strangely glad for it. She didn't trust herself not to have another experience like before.

Now she couldn't bring herself to look in the mirror not because she was afraid that she would see that witch of a woman, no quite the opposite, she was afraid that she would see herself, her face for the last time. Sometimes, in the dark, her thoughts turned abruptly to a darker path, that bitter aching gripping her body and soul with dread and every time with the last ounce of her resolve, she pushed it down.

When she wasn't wallowing in self-pity during the last few days, she had been able to determine how she wanted to look. She had prepared a manila folder for Christian, full with deliberate notes and photos to direct him onto the right path. She had already had a look in her mind, a look not differing so much from her own that she would feel alienated from herself. And she was pretty determinate to have it.

Her longish features would remain but the sharpness of the angles would be chiseled until their shape became a very sharp oval. Her high cheekbones would be lessened a bit and her eyebrows would be drawn up along a sharp flat line with the slightest arc. Perhaps a little touches for the eyes as they'd be drawn too automatically when they touched eyebrows. She had no idea what to with forehead so she left it alone and couldn't bring herself to touch her nose. Maybe it'd be chiseled a bit too, to fit it into her new features, but she hadn't decided yet. The cruel lines of her lips could be lessened a little bit too, again gentled, and she had dyed her hair the darkest brown in Star City and now she could dye it again perhaps to raven, and perhaps even put in contact lenses. Leaving the white summer dress in her hand on the bed, she took a photo she had prepared with Photoshop out of the folder and studied it. Her lines had always been strong, cut as if they were sculptured decisively by an artist within a cold fury. The woman on the photo looked not softer, but more… dramatic.

Sighing, she put it back to folder, threw the summer dress into her bag, and sat on the bed, looking around and her thoughts, without a notice, turned to Bruce again. She grimaced: it had started to happen a lot lately. It was strange; she felt she had to do something to ease his—_worries_, an urge so strong that she couldn't quite shake it off.

She must have grown soft.

Her gaze caught the metal box sitting on top of her night stand. She traced her finger along its edge. She opened the lid, looking its contests. She closed it. Then biting her lip, she re-opened it, took the velvet pouch out and slid it inside her pocket.

Taking the box again, she left the guest room to find Bruce.

He was neither the dining room nor his study. It was still early to go to the cave and she knew tonight he was going to have to attend a charity before they flew over to Caracas. Batman was going to have to stand aside for tonight, much to Bruce's chagrin.

Then he must have been in his room. She stood still in front of his massive wooden door engraved with big 'BW', straightening her back. She tossed her hair, forced her expression into indifference, and glided the sliding door without knocking.

Clothed in a flawless tuxedo, Bruce was startled by her presence. Before she turned back from her decision, she walked to him. "In Ancient Rome, when the warriors go to war, they leave behind something very particular to their beloved ones so the person left behind can know that they will come back, come back to reclaim that very important thing again." She offered the box to Bruce, whose face seemed to bear an expression very close to surprise. "Take this. I took out just one thing. The rest are still inside." She shook the box to him. "Take it."

Slowly he reached the box without averting his gaze from her.

"I'll come back," she promised. "Do you believe me?"

His answer wasn't more than a hoarse whisper. "Yes."

Satisfied, she nodded. "Glad we've settled that then."

With that, she left, leaving a baffled Bruce Wayne behind.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven:****  
**

* * *

_Five months later:_

Exiting from Wayne Tower, Bruce answered the call coming from the special line. "Thanks to all things sacred and godly, I'm still a stunning hot piece of meat as ever."

He got into his new Lamborghini, a silver Murcielago Roadster —a demand/request from her—before he said evenly, "I'm glad."

"You _should_ be relieved that your favorite accomplice is not a patchwork of a woman," Valerie chided as he passed the phone to his other ear to press the ignition button of the car.

"I'm relieved, too," he acceded with a mildly irritated tone as he shifted into reverse.

She sniffed and hung up.

Sighing, he threw his phone into the passenger seat. Their conversations usually ended in such a manner: her cutting the line abruptly, leaving him more annoyed than—well, more than before.

Usually she didn't even bother to call. Instead in the middle of night she sent him exaggerated observations about Puerto Vallarta, where she was stuck for her recovery, or downright extravagant facts about mundane things like the latest collection from Christian Louboutin, the lost planet of Nibiru, the Murcielago Roadster, and… sexual cannibalism.

Her last message two days ago went like this:

_Do you know some researchers found that those Mediterranean tarantulas who eat their suitors produce more offspring, and those spiderlings are stronger and bigger than the offspring of tarantulas that have to stuck to more natural prey? Some of the researchers have suggested then that males may even sacrifice themselves for the sake of their offspring. The rest of them just said it's utter bullshit._

He had no idea how to reply that so he had just typed:_ I'm inclined to believe the latter._

Some people said that distance made wonders on the relations between people, but those some people clearly never got the chance to meet Valerie.

When he returned to the manor later that night, another message had come: _I want to relocate to Wales._

Giving in a sigh, he dialed her. "You want what?" he grunted.

"To relocate to Wales, Bruce," she said calmly. "I thought I was clear enough," she paused a second. "Is there a problem?"

"Problem?" he repeated incredulously. "You don't remember what happened the last time?"

There was a silence at her side then she said, "Geography doesn't seem to be your best. Wales is not in Ireland."

"No," he bit off.

"I assure you, Bruce, there is no one there who wants to kill me."

"Why Wales then?"

She hesitated but despite his jab, when she answered, her tone was nonchalant. "I heard they have splendid hills over there, fresh air, good for breathing." He didn't reply. She continued, letting out a small sigh. "I used to live there, for a while. I want something… familiar."

The way she said the last part made him—well, he wasn't sure what it made him truthfully. He was moved a little bit, he supposed. For five months, she had been acting like she had gone for an extended holiday. Alfred had gone to see her a couple times (he couldn't, he hadn't gotten the _clearance)_; three times when her face had still been in bandages and twice after, and every time his remark was the same; wary and careful. _"She seems to be coping quite well."_ It was the first time, as vaguely as it was, that she had mentioned something even remotely associated with the operation. Now that she wanted something—he grimaced. "Are you trying to manipu—are you messing with me?"

She laughed, "Is it working?"

His jaw clenched. "No."

She made an affronted noise. "Well, at least I'm not _lying_." She paused. "There is something I need to do before I come back."

Well, that sounded ominous. "Valerie—" he started.

"Am I your prisoner?" she asked, frustration lacing her tone as it rose. "Is my life going to always be like this now?" She didn't wait for a response. "You set me free at that hotel room, Bruce." Yes, he had done so and she chose to stay, Bruce reminded himself. "But am I free at all?"

His clenched jaw throbbed with pain, and he wanted to bark out 'no.' Then she pleaded, "_Trust_ me once more."

His resolve shattered. "Just promise me you won't do something stupid."

* * *

She had been such a good girl that if Santa Claus had been watching he would have to leave that present sack of his entirely for her. Yes, she hadn't done anything that could be considered stupid, well, until tonight. Tonight, she thought, Bruce could easily categorize the thing she was planning to do as 'something stupid.'

She walked down the streets, her eyes catching her reflection on the shop fronts. The bruises and swelling had been reduced to next to nothing, and her face had settled quite well during her recovery time. As low as a human being he could be, Christian was a good doctor, she had always known. The woman looking back at her seemed attractive, alluring, and more importantly _interesting_. She looked also very beautiful, like her beauty was carefully carved into daylight by a patient artist. She tried hard not to grimace at the reflection.

Two weeks ago she'd told Bruce there was something she needed to do; in fact it was the only thing left to do, and she was going to end it tonight. If she _was_ sentimental, she could have even said she would find closure. But it wasn't about closure; it was about… she scowled. Maybe it was a little about closure.

She gulped down the contents of the bottle in her hand in one swift motion. It burned her throat, putting her vocal cords aflame. She bent down, coughing, and cursed. She was expecting side effects, but boy that had hurt. Nevertheless she drank the rest of it and let out a whimper, thick and deep.

The pub was how she remembered. The bar, the stools, and the wall hangings were a little aged with passing years, but the atmosphere was still the same: warm, welcoming, and friendly. She smiled, her eyes traveled around, and then she found him. Settled at the far edge of the left side, he was sipping a bottle of Guinness, making small talk with the bartender every now and then. He looked the same too: eyes squinted, brows furrowed with his usual half-oblivious-frown as he watched the match on the TV disinterestedly, his shoulders hunched a bit with the worries of a long day at the university. She walked over to a stool, leaving the two seats between them empty and threw her jacket across the next. She slid onto the one nearer him, not making a show but not silently either.

As she expected, his gaze skipped to her. Then his hand stopped halfway in the air.

She turned aside on her seat and quirked an eyebrow. "So—sorry," he stumbled onto words. "I—I thought you were someone else."

She sniffed, "Hmm."

He gave out a laugh as if he was disgusted with himself. "Guess a lot of people have said that to you, right?"

She sniffed again. "Quite many," her voice, hoarse and raucous, seemed strange even to her own ears.

He pressed his hand on his heart. "I give you my word, miss, that for one second I really thought you were someone I knew."

She leaned forward, "An old lover?"

He gave her an unreadable look, then shrugged. He looked like the man she had first met, in search of something lost to him forever, only there was more to it now; he had never been this jaded before. She had always felt the bitterness underneath his culminated serenity, always recognized the inadequacies and losses cutting him apart, but this… this was different. Something curled in her stomach and she felt—disturbed. "So…" she said shaking the feeling off and perched her elbow on the bar, then _looked_ at him. "What does a girl have to do around here to get herself bought a drink?"

He gaped at her. "Ask, I think?"

She flashed a roguish smile, and leaned toward him. "Buy me a drink?"

* * *

In the pub's filthy restroom, she propped him on the wall, assaulting his neck with kisses. "Tis' mad," he said, shivering.

"Having sex?" she asked, laughing.

"We barely know each other," he countered as her hands furiously worked on his buckle.

"You're Michael, I'm Valerie, see, we _already_ know each other," she pointed out as her tongue made a long trial along his neck. She sucked on his pulse, and below the buckle opened. "And we'll be getting to know each other even better with each passing minute."

* * *

She returned her flat later in the night barefoot, clothes disheveled, hair messed up, make up distorted, her shoes in her left hand, feeling as wasted as she was looking. What kind of closure had _that_ been?

Her hands found the small seashell on her nightstand. She dropped herself on the bed, the shell tight in her grip.

_"Sarah—" Michael started, his tone implying that he was getting to something serious but didn't feel particularly comfortable about it. Ahh…he fidgeted. "Your father called today and—"_

_She cut him off. "No."_

_"Baby, he's your father."_

_"Look, I assume he's talked you into this. But trust me, stay away from him. He's only trouble."_

_"I know, I know." Michael ran a hand through his hair. "Still, he's your father. He said he missed you."_

_She scoffed._

_He pulled her closer to him, wrapping his arms around her shoulders. "Just give him a chance. Maybe you'll manage to get over your differences."_

_"I'd rather not."_

_"Baby—"_

_"Okay, fine. But I'm only doing it because otherwise you won't stop pestering me!"_

_"I just want you to have your family back."_

_She wrapped her arms around his neck, and smiled at him. "You are my family."_

_x_

_She glared at Jason, who in return smiled broadly. Michael, being ever the optimistic, left minutes ago and taking Tim along with him in order to give the two some privacy. Jason looked around. "A nice little house," he said. He pointed to the curtains and the cushions with a waving hand. "Perfect touches too."_

_She didn't take his bait. Instead, she waited patiently. "He calls you Sarah."_

_"Yes," she hissed through gritted teeth, patience be damned. She tried to say something to wipe that smug smirk off his face. "I—" she paused, what 'love him'? She couldn't be in love; it didn't even exist. "I'm happy with him." She settled with that._

_"Ah…happiness; hard to find…and even harder to get out of." He sighed. "Happiness…is the craftiest prison ever created, wouldn't you agree?"_

_She didn't want to answer, so instead she asked her own question. "Michael might have eaten up your bullshit about missing me, but I have not. What do you want?"_

_He looked wounded. "It wouldn't be that I just want to see my dearest daughter?"_

_She laughed. "What? You've run out of girls who will prostitute themselves for you?"_

_"Doll, don't be like this. Don't act like I forced you to do things."_

_"You expect me to believe that you really just came to see me?"_

_"I certainly came to see you." He shrugged. "It doesn't mean of course that I don't happen to have another game at the moment." He flashed a horrid grin; all toothy and edgy. "A mere coincidence."_

_Frustrated, she shook her head. What else did she expect?_

_"So how are you?" he asked, raising his eyebrows._

_She glared at him. "You've always known by just looking." The girl was jealous of you, because you were beautiful, doll. Cheap bitches, they put on tacky ones, but it got nothing to do with us. "Why can't you just look and tell me, father?"_

_"Seems like we're always playing a game, aren't we?" He sounded disappointed. "Very well then." He gave her another look before speaking. "You're upset, that much is obvious. You're upset about seeing me because I make your bubble of happiness shake. I make you remember your past, yourself, which is something you apparently have taken drastic measure not to do. On the surface, you seem happy, but there is something else, something deep down, something you try to bury with silly cushions and hideous curtains." He waved a hand vaguely in their directions._

_"You have a question you want to ask but you don't want to ask it because it seems crucial, and you're afraid to ask that question. So instead you go on doing what you do best, pretending, playing at being a loving girlfriend, buying cushions and curtains."_

_Damn the cushions and the curtains! "What is it then, what's the question I'm afraid of?" She aimed to sound belittling but instead it came out like a plea._

"_A really simple question: Is that enough?" He waved his arms around. "This…this mockery of 'home sweet home' is enough?"_

_She drew in a deep breath, ignoring the way her hands tremble. "Is that all?" she forced out a laugh and managed to sound mocking, like she wasn't bothered, like she wasn't horrified by any of it. _

"_No," his tone dropped. "There is still the matter of your answer."_

_Dread, she felt it in deep down, she closed her eyes. "I look at you and see someone who pretends to be normal. An ordinary girl, dating a man that at best could be called average. A girl, raising that guy's child, playing the nice stepmother, buying stuff. Then I ask myself why? Why would this gorgeous, smart woman not try to have more satisfactory things? Why she settles with a regular guy when she could easily win the tall, handsome, and dark one. Why she deals with someone else's child when she could have her own. Why? Another simple question, isn't it?"_

_Tears welled up in her eyes. He sounded…resigned now, close to sadness. "Because the girl already knows what her answer is: it isn't enough. It never could be enough. So that's why she pretends to be normal, dating average guys, taking care of an average child, buying hideous stuff; so when the time comes, and it certainly will, she can easily walk out, without qualm, knowing that whatever she leaves behind aren't truly hers, have never truly belonged to her."_

_She let the tears drop. _

"_You can't run away from who you are, doll."_

_She hated…no…she had to invent a new word to explain how she felt about Jason now. Hate simply wasn't sufficient enough for the job. "Get out," she spit, her voice like venom. "Get the hell out."_

_And he did, leaving her in the darkness._

_Three hours later, Michael was sleeping soundly beside her, his arm circled around her waist, its weight pressing her down against the mattress. She stared at the ceiling, trying to think of something… anything that would undo what Jason said. She tried to think of the day they had met, in the filthy back alley, the time he had given her the seashell she still kept, their first time; the time he had confessed that he was in love with her, still inside, her clutching him tightly with her arms and legs, her heart beating fast in its cage. She tried to remember when Tim had said first 'papa' last month, the joy of it…_

_She felt something griping her heart; something cold, unyielding, malign. She couldn't breathe. She choked on a silent sob, then another, and another. Happiness…it was the craftiest prison ever created. Freeing herself from the arm, she stood and looked in the mirror. Lightly, her motions barely making a noise, she took all of the cash lying around, put her jacket on and went to door. She hesitated there, looking back. At least Jason wasn't right about everything. She walked back fast, pulled out the drawer, and fished out the small seashell. She put it in her jacket._

_She left the door open behind her._

_Two hours, three drinks, and one fuck later, in the hours before the thin line of dawn, from a phone booth, she called her father. "Tell me about it," she demanded._

_He just laughed._

Half an hour later, she stood up and went to bathroom. She fisted her fingers, crushed the small shell and emptied its pieces into the toilet.

She studied the broken pieces swimming in the water, each part a broken memoir from the past; then she flushed them. She returned to her bedroom, took her phone out. There had been only one thing left, only one connection she had to her past, and she had cut it as swiftly and destructively as humanly possible.

Feeling serenity settling, she typed, "_I want to return home."_

* * *

Waiting for the taxi to finally find the address, he glanced down at the phone in his hand. No… the message still seemed as extraordinary as before.

Home… she had written she wanted to return _home,_ and Bruce didn't know if he should feel relief or worry.

But he was—excited to see her. Almost six months had passed, and beside the brief talks, emails, or text messages, they hadn't made contact even for a second: that she had been very adamant about. When he had pushed, she had caved into letting Alfred visit her, but she had drawn the line with the old man. Bruce Wayne wouldn't be allowed to see her in her… particular condition.

But everything was coming to an end today. Within a couple of hours, they would leave for Gotham. For…home.

He glanced down at his phone again then further down toward his lap, where the metal box sat with a cold touch against his khaki pants.

The taxi stopped with a deafening sound screeching tires; he put a hand forward for balance. He glared at the driver. The Pakistani pointed at the taximeter. He fished out a fifty Euro and threw it toward him before leaving the taxi.

He looked at the shady neighborhood with wary eyes. Why had she chosen such a place to settle anyway? It mattered no longer. None of it mattered any longer, she was coming back.

He walked into the apartment.

He only knocked the door once. A woman… who didn't look like exactly like the Valerie he knew yet somehow still seemed familiar enough to be her sibling opened it. They stared each other for a time before she took a step back to invite him in. Then she smiled at him expectantly.

He still watched her. "So… how do I look?" Her soft rich tone, the familiar voice echoed in his ears, as she prompted further, smiling.

He searched for suitable words then settled what he had thought first when he was coming in. "You look—different," Her smile pulled into a grimace. "But yet, somehow still the same," He paused. "You look familiar."

That appeared to be right thing to say because her face split in two with a genuine smile. Upon seeing the metal box, she cried in delight. "And you brought my box back too." She walked to him. "Hope you looked after them nicely."

He smiled little and gave the box back to her. "Are you ready to go?"

She nodded and took her clutch from the sideboard. "Ready, that's what I am, darling," she said, "always."

He looked after her. "You're not taking anything with you?"

She arched an eyebrow. She was still as exceptional at that as before. "I already have everything that matters in my hands," she answered, tugging her hand through the crook of his elbow. "Besides, there has to be some benefit to being associated with a multi-billionaire. You can buy me new clothes."

Smiling faintly, he asked, "So… just as a curiosity. That velvet pouch," he cast a glance at her as opening the door. "Is that also left behind?"

"Careful, Bruce," she took a step out of the house, giving him another little smile. "If you keep this up I won't have any secrets left."

"And is that a bad thing, a life without secrets?"

"You tell me, Mr. Wayne. You tell me."

* * *

A few months away from his thirty, the man now known as Lucky Luke ended his lifetime search and knocked on the door of the Professor's office in the City Hall District. The door was opened by an exasperated, attractive, blonde secretary. "Hello, I'm Professor Quinzel's three o'clock appointment."

The secretary stared first at the unlit Luckies dangling from the corner of his mouth, and then her eyes flicked toward the clock on the door that stated meticulously that there were still twenty minutes until three. Yet the woman stood aside, letting him in. She walked to her place behind the desk in the waiting room, and Lucky Luke placed himself on the leather couch opposite it. "You can't smoke here," she stated.

He gave her a small smile. "I'm not."

She stared at him for a full minute before asking, "Coffee?"

Lucky Luke smiled again. "Have it every morning."

She frowned. "Now?"

"I'd like to."

Freaks, she thought, sighing inwardly as she disappeared behind the kitchen's door. Her best friend was working with an orthopedist and whining about it all the time, but she was sure at least she never had to deal with freaks. As the water boiled inside the kettle she wondered if the Professor would give her rest of the day off. Today was her birthday, and her boyfriend was planning to throw a surprise party for her (of which she wasn't aware, of course), and she would like to have a few hours to get ready properly. She sighed. If it were up to her, she would proclaim all the special days such as birthdays, anniversaries and Valentine Day as public holidays.

She returned to the man with coffee; one sugar and no cream.

The Professor walked in when Lucky Luke had taken his first sip, and if not for the secretary's hurried movements towards her, the cowboy couldn't have realized it. The Professor—a middle aged, remarkably pleasant-to-eyes blond woman—wasn't wearing any glasses nor she was clothed in the neat unwrinkled suit according her profession, instead she was wearing simple jeans with a simple top, finished with a silky scarf wrapped around her slim neck. She smiled down at him. "Hello, I'm Professor Harleen Quinzel." Lucky Luke stayed silent, and the Professor motioned him to follow her.

Lucky Luke's suspicions about the Professor's credentials rocketed as he walked into her office and saw that there was no psychologist's couch. He walked toward the two comfortable-looking leather armchairs in front of the desk and lingered to check her diplomas. Upon seeing the familiar Yale sigil, he settled himself in an armchair, and she sat in the chair opposite him. She didn't take any notice of his cowboy appearance, instead pointed at his cigarette. "Do you want to smoke?"

"No, I quit."

"When?"

"This morning. Does it disturb you, dangling at the corner of my mouth?"

"No, I see."

"What do you see?" he asked, frowning.

"I quit too, a few years ago. It was hard."

"A friend advised me to come here. Do I need to tell you about my childhood now?"

The Professor took her Parker from her table and made the first diagnosis: _A little aggressive. Trying to balance his fear with witty jokes._

Lucky Luke made the first diagnosis too: _A compliant type, with little sense of humor._

"Where did you pass your childhood?" the Professor asked.

"In orphanages. Well, after seven years old. What? Are you trying to figure out if we're fellow countrymen?"

"Where are you from?"

Lucky Luke smiled a little smile. "I'm a poor lonesome cowboy a long way from home."

* * *

They walked into the Principal's office together, the little boy still yet to call Lucky Luke, Bubble Yum, and Bastard Dan. Closing the door behind them, Janitor Short Leg said, "Room will be spotless till the Principal comes back, don't say I didn't say that."

Boy started to clean up with the file cabinet on top of which a middle-sized Bald Eagle was perched. Bubble Yum started to mop, the mop's handle bigger than him, Bastard searched the room, calculating the avoidance quota, and being the oldest of the group, he decided to have it all. He was nine years old and debatably could be ranked as superior to the other two as he had been in the foster home since his birth. He approached the aquarium behind the desk and leaned his face against the glass surface, his nose flattened comically as he watched the three fish swimming around.

Boy dusted off the Bald Eagle carefully, trying to wipe out every spot, and losing the battle with his growing curiosity, he tried to flip it around to look inside. It proved to be hard job as he was only seven-a-half years old. Bubble Yum came to his aide, and on the chair they were standing on together they flipped it back. He didn't know what exactly he was searching but when he saw its insides empty, Boy felt disappointed.

Bubble Yum should have felt it, too, because he stepped down from the chair, and went beside Bastard to look at the aquarium.

Bastard momentarily lifted his face off the glass and cast Boy a glance. "Your parents were mobsters." A sudden silence fell in the air, disturbed by only Bubble Yum's chewings. Boy thought about throwing the bald eagle at Bastard's head, but realizing he couldn't throw it to that distance, he settled with shrugging.

Bubble Yum looked at Bastard. "What's—"He started then paused as his gum's balloon popped on his face. He cleaned the gum from his face and continued, "a lobster?"

Feeling perhaps Boy would want to answer that question, Bastard didn't talk. In the silence, Bubble asked again. "What's a lobster?"

"You, dolt," Bastard answered then. "Not lobster, _mob_-ster," He rolled his tongue over his mouth, the tip was dangling slightly out. "A _mob_ster is killing people with his gun called a mobster," Bastard explained, stamping upon every grammar rule in English. Bubble Yum was confused again. In his mind he weighted probabilities. He crossed over several candid (Superman, Captain America, Spiderman), then asked suspiciously; "Like Lucky Luke?"

"Dolt, does Lucky Luke ever kill?"

Bubble Yum ruffled his hair as if to think, his expression suggesting it was a hard job for him. "Doesn't he?"

Bastard spoke with clarity, his voice absolute, "No." He had read every issue of Lucky Luke since the Principal had brought all the collection in a friendly (at least according to Principal) exchange of orphanages in Europe, and he thought himself an expert on the matter. "Don't you read Texas Post?" That wasn't a very meaningful question though, as Bubble Yum was only six and still couldn't read. All his knowledge was from picture-gazing. "He doesn't kill," Bastard went on. "If they bother him too much, he shoots them at their guns. But mobsters are not like this, they kill."

"Who they kill?"

"The people, the police."

Bubble Yum pondered about it more, and then asked again, "Like Daltons?"

Bastard nodded in thought. "Yeah, like Daltons."

Bubble felt sad. He liked Boy. When they presented candies the last Christmas, and when he wasn't able to reach out in the crowd -even for his age he was short- Boy had taken two and gave him one. More, their beds were next to each other, so he thought Boy as his strategic partner. He didn't press on it.

And Bastard got bored with the sudden Law and Order chat too. He started rummaging through the room as Boy cleaned the desk. "Where is the feed of these?" Bastard asked then answered his own question by finding a little package inside the little cabinet where aquarium sat. Three boys then circled the aquarium looking at three fish swimming around.

x

There were three things the Principal loved the most in life: Slut, Smart, and Stroller, and just because they happened to belong to the same species, saying that he loved the goldfish the most in this life couldn't be exactly true as the Principal knew that each of his fish had a different nature than other. For example Slut was a real flirter, Stroller as according to his name didn't stop swimming around even for one minute, and Smart, he could swear on his father's grave, was the most intelligent life form on this whole planet.

For anyone who knew about his obsession with his goldfish would easily understand why he now looked like he was about to burst open; his face was so crimson that smoke could start coming out of his ears in any minute.

He looked at down three boys standing in front of him. He drew in and out deep breaths, methodically, in and out, in and out, and realized to solve this mystery he would need to use his fine pedagogy traits. "Who did take them?" he asked, voice laced with sympathy, "Tell me, I won't get mad, okay. Do you like goldfish? Yeah, yeah, I bet you do." He fixed a smile on them. "I might get you a couple of them too, if you like them this much. But now, tell me, where are they?"

Trio stayed silent, then Bastard started to speak fast, his whinny voice trying to pick up his mouth's pace. "I didn't take it, Principal. I swear I didn't. But I saw—"He pointed the two boys, standing next to him, "those two—"

"You were with us, too." Bubble Yum cut him off.

"Not."

"You found out feeds."

"Feeds?" the Principal fumed in. "Did you feed the fish, how much, dammit, you little bastards!" he growled out, fine pedagogy traits forgotten, and slapped Bastard at the face. "Where are my fish?" He turned aside to slap Bubble Yum, too, because the Principal never made any discrimination among his charges, and for the last to Boy.

Bubble Yum touched his cheek where the Principal's fingerprints reddened it and then threw a nasty kick at the Principal's sheen. "Why are you slapping me?" the little boy asked angrily, his gum forgotten in his mouth.

There was a stunned silence from each person in the room, in which Janitor Short Leg drew in a breath, and the seconds after it, the Principal's loud curses and angry shout outs were heard. "You son of bitch—"

"You _are_ a son of a bitch—"Bubble Yum confronted, and it earned him another good slap. But Bubble didn't care, of course, he did never care anymore, everyone knew. Bubble Yum's father had come to see him the first and the only time the last Christmas, and there had been an angry bruises on his face, and he had told his son, 'Never back down from a fight. If someone curses you, you curse worse; if someone hits you, you hit back harder.' Bubble had taken his advice to his heart, and because of it he had suffered countless beatings since the Christmas.

The Principal though lost it completely after that.

He started slapping them meticulously, only stopping to catch his breath, and when he did, Short Leg took over his place, then Bastard began crying…"I didn't take them, Principal," He pointed Boy. "He must take it. His parents were mobsters, killers." Boy fixed him a nasty look. "And he was asking how long they could live out of the water."

"Where did you hear that mobster stuff?"

"I heard you saying to Short Leg."

Another heavy slap landed on Bastard's cheek. "You've eavesdropped us, you bastard?"

"I—"the Principal shut the old janitor up with a raised finger, and waved him off, pointing to Bubble and Bastard, and the janitor exited out of the room, tagging the two boys along.

The Principal looked at Boy, Boy looked at the Principal.

"Where are they?"

"I hid them."

"You hid them?"

Boy nodded. "And you need to find them-"

"I need to find them?"

"—because they haven't got much time left."

x

He couldn't. That morning the orphanage was ravaged, up and down; in and out; and because of the sudden check-over countless stashes turned out to light; cigarette packages for dozens, lots of third grade wine, a collection of thirty two cutting tools in different dimensions and variety, and forty-nine Playboy magazine in a worn condition, (three was lost, boys had started to argue over the lost months, each blaming the other until Principal put it an end) but there was no fish, gold or not, found out.

Several days later, the mystery of Goldfish case solved, when Janitor Short Leg came to make the big autumn cleaning, as he looked at dumbfounded the dead bodies of three fish inside the Bald Eagle on the cabinet.

* * *

The Professor nodded. "So what happened after?"

Lucky Luke shrugged. "I was sent to detention. I was cleaning the orphanage all day, and sleeping at the basement for a year."

"Penalty finished after a year?"

"No, the Principal was assigned to another facility of the fund maintaining our orphanage."

"That's a hard punishment for a seven-years-old boy."

Lucky Luke smiled a little smile. "And a half," He corrected. "Perhaps, but cleanup habit is good for one, if nothing else it teaches you not to leave your trace behind." The Professor's hands scratched something over her clipboard frantically. His smile grew more. "And the darkness is good, too. I'm not sure exactly how, but it's good too."

"I see."

"What do you see?"

"It's good for a child to learn not to fear the darkness."

Lucky Luke's eyes found the Professor's. "Who says anything about learning not to fear?" His gaze skipped towards the clock on the wall. "Oh, the hour already up. Time flies." He stood up.

The Professor stood up too. "So I'll see you next Monday?"

Lucky Luke remained silent, looking thoughtful. "I guess you will," he said at last. "There is still quite a story you need to know about."

* * *

If for nothing else, one could always count on Bruce Wayne for surprises.

The main guest room -_her room_, she corrected in her mind- was decorated again. The former majestically gloomily furniture were replaced with a modernist ruddy, black and red. It was stylish, daring, and at the sharp edge of becoming a designer nightmare, yet it still managed to come out elegant. Needless to say, she _adored_ it. At the far edge of the room, around a ruddy puff in front of the dressing table, Christian Louboutin's latest collection was waiting.

She looked at the shoes—she counted more than twenty at the first look- with wide eyes as her gaze caught a glance of the bookshelves. On the top of shelf, among others she read one very thin book as "_The Deadly Widows of nature, Tarantulas: On evolutionary sexual cannibalism.'_

She laughed and threw herself at the bed. So Bruce Wayne knew how to charm a girl after all.

* * *

Thomas Burke was having an exceptionally bad day, and he had no qualms about sucking his co-workers into his own misery. Ignoring his whining in his special kind of colorful language, Pamela thought being an officer in Homicide Division could get one away from murder.

She frowned upon her line of thoughts even though the thought had its appeal. She tapped the back of her pencils on the desk, trying to block all the gibberish out, and focused on the case in front of her. The telephone rang and Burke picked it up, "Homicide Division."

_Sixteen, murdered_… her stomach turned to acrid. She needed to make herself a garden, she thought, a small summer garden just at the corner in her living room.

"Hmm," Burke said. Flowers, in different kinds. She didn't have time for flowers since—for a long time. "What did you say you did?"

_Raped… _All colorful and lively, she needed more flowers in her life. "A dog, you say. Puckett Square Park?" Her attention slipped to Burke. "You buried a dog in Puckett—and we need to find it, don't have much time-"There was a silence in the room then Burke bellowed at the tops of his lung. "You motherfucker—I'll find your number, you idiot, and show you what's about fooling around with the force—you want someone to fool, call nine-one-one." He closed the phone with a force that caused a sort of miracle that it didn't down.

"People are idiots," he muttered under his breath, and Pamela felt the need to agree with him this time. She frowned.

Charlie barged into their office, his face reddened with a look so uncommon for him. "Come on," he said, standing at doorsill, "a call came from the Cornell's police station. The guy that murdered the lawyer's daughter has just surrendered."

They all gathered on their feet as Pamela felt the blood drained off her veins. The monster had surrendered? "People are idiots," Burke grunted again under his breath. "You kill someone, go and hide…then we do our job, ain't I right?"

Pamela fixed him a glare. "Try to remember there is a girl who was raped and then brutally murdered on her sweet sixteen here."

Burke, thank god, had still decency to look ashamed. Chief Bullock waved all of them off with disgruntled fickle of hands. "Enough with nonsense, out. Bring that son of a bitch in."

* * *

The son of a bitch was a street boy in his middle twenties, already looking like thirty, with a darkened face marked by certain Hispanic features, his voice was rich with accent. "I'm going to confess, I don't have anything to hide."

"So…" Burke started then inside the interrogation room, "Why did you do it?"

"Isabella was sixteen when she killed herself," the murderer said out of blue. "She had the long hair, and darkest eyes I've ever seen. We grew up together, in the same foster home, and we were twelve when we ran away together."

Pamela looked at him stupefied. The murderer's voice bore so much longing, so much pain. "We came to Gotham, and Gotham became our home. Isabella was beautiful, had a smile so bright it could light up whole your world. She was…beautiful. The man saw her on the street one day. He started to follow her every step. We went to the police, they didn't listen to us. They said they could do nothing without an open assault, but I knew better. They were afraid 'cause he was the big bad wolf of the forest."

"One night, on her sixteenth birthday when I was away to find her a present, he came. He raped her: and gone. I found her, close to death. When she fought back, he beat her to death. I held her close in my arms, caressed her hair, and told her I still loved her. And I did, she was the light of my life. We went to the police again, and they took her statement, and the evidence, and stuff…."

"Then a week later, men came. They beat me, then her, and threatened to kill us if we went to the police again. We did. Then a man came. He was the mobster's lawyer. He tried to buy us. I beat him so bad they had to send another one afterwards. This one was better, didn't try to get us beaten, didn't try to buy us. He only talked, said it was his city, no one could touch him, if we don't drop it, no one was going to cross him for us. I sent him away too but without beating."

Pamela felt her eyes getting watered. She bit inside her cheeks. Flowers, she needed flowers. Colorful ones, all lively. "That night, in the bathroom, she cut her wrists. She said this was a war we were not going to win, and said she didn't want to fight it. I held her in my arms while she was fading."

"I buried her in the homeless cemetery," the murderer went on. "There was just me and the caretaker in her funeral. I didn't make an eulogy, the old caretaker only said 'the good die young.'" He paused for a second. "The lawyer, the second one, came again after two days from her funeral. He asked me what I was going to do. I told him I was going to drop it. He nodded and offered me money, the same amount the first one was trying. I took it this time."

His face hardened, like his voice. "Then I waited. I waited as the mobster got married the second time, I waited as the lawyer celebrated his daughter's eighth birthday, I waited as the mobster got himself killed in a conflict, I waited. I never stopped waiting till last night when the lawyer's daughter turned into sixteen. I broke into his home, knocked out the lawyer and his wife with a spray and raped her daughter, then cut her wrists. I held her in my arms while she was fading." He looked down. "I plead guilty."

Her voice faltered as she asked, "The money, the money we found on the bed…?"

He lifted his head to look at her, and Pamela shuddered. So much pain, so much…horror. "That's the money they gave to me."

Pamela ran out of the room. Charlie caught her at the elbow when she was out, asked quietly. "What happened? Did he confess? Why he did it?"

Pamela pulled her arm free. "Ask the girl's father."

She left then; flowers, they all needed more flowers.

That night, in her tiny flat, in three small pots, Pamela planted three seeds of flowers, colorful and lively, and placed them just beside the window, in the corner of her living room, in name of three victims, two young women she had never got to chance to know before the life had ripped out of them cruelly, and one old woman she had known from the deep of her heart, and named the corner as her garden of death.

She then lied on her bed, gazing at the ceiling, and felt like she hated human beings.

* * *

Next mor—afternoon, Bruce was already sitting on the small dinner table for breakfast when Valerie walked in. She joined him, watching him eat his French toast, while reading his newspaper. "Thank you," she said. "The room, the decorations…I liked it."

Bruce nodded, eyes not moving from the paper. Valerie, different yet familiar, nodded a little too then helped herself to one half of his toast. Bruce gave her a rising eyebrow and she shrugged back. "I'm sta-rv-ing," she muttered, munching the toast.

"Sooo," she gulped down her bite. "You know I had a lot of time on my hands lately," she said conversationally, then paused to look around. "Where is Alfred?"

For someone else it might have been difficult to keep up with her differing points in mere seconds, but so far Bruce had some practice on it. He didn't falter before he responded. "I don't keep track of him. You had time on your hands, so?"

Not answering him, her hands reached to take another half. He reacted first, flying the toast from her fingers. She narrowed her eyes, he minced the bread.

She wrinkled her nose up. "Hmm where was I?" She made a gesture with her fingers. "Oh…right…I think I've found what my cover story will be."

Then again she caught him off guard. "It must be something good to cover both sides of the story, you know. Not just my background, but it also needs to explain why the hell I'm staying in this _ridiculously_ big house of yours." He started to dread where this conversation going. "And since we wouldn't want to get rid of poor Alfred, it has to be something else. Then I had a stroke of brilliancy."

He gulped down one bite, and waited. "I believe I need to be your bodyguard."

He stared at her, "My what?"

"Genius, I know." She waved her hands, posing herself. "Admittedly, I was thinking of something else before…" _Ah_…Bruce sighed mentally. "Like a personal assistant but since I have no intention of dressing in suits any more I chose bodyguard instead. Besides a PA would be a little over top for Bruce Wayne. I mean what could _you_ do with her?" she asked, chuckling low in her throat. "Make her poke you around when you fall asleep in board meetings? And you have to admit, carrying around a smoldering, gorgeous woman for a bodyguard seems like a thing Bruce Wayne could do for fun."

Not being sure if he was insulted yet again because of his other alter persona, he nodded. It wasn't like that it was uncalled for anyway. "I even managed to come up with a story," she continued eagerly. "At first I thought she would be coming from New York or L.A but then decided against it. Vegas, that's where Valerie hails from. I know for a fact that there are a lot of girls around there who easily fit in the bill. I might put even some accent to her speech," she shrugged. "I've not decided yet."

He watched her closely. Her eyes gleaming, her face -different yet familiar- brightened, she was talking fast, gesturing animatedly with her hands, the corner of her lips had a turn up. "You enjoy it, don't you?" he commented, voice sounded attentive, curious of her reaction, "creating fake personalities."

Her smile turned into a flat line. "Yeah, I do."

"I didn't mean it that way."

She sniffed, and Bruce had a nagging suspicion that if it had been a telephone conversation, she would have already hung up at his face. "Well, in that case, thank you for demonstrating your fine observation skills for my benefit." She paused for a breath, and again a smile appeared on her lips, this time mocking. "I was _still_ worrying about it."

He ignored her jab, instead said with a half scowl, "You'll need an ID. And a social security number as well." He'd been thinking about it for a while and thinking if asking Gordon's help would be a problem. Together with Fox he could counterfeit a decent one, but still he couldn't risk her with that. She needed something solid.

She nodded in a way indicate that she had been thinking about it too. "With a little help from your police pals, and with the equipment down in the cave, I could be able to create a decent identity I guess."

He nodded back and stood up. "Excellent. Let's then get you around, shall we?" he asked, holding his hand to her.

She ignored his offered hand. "What—I'm still starving."

"We'll buy you breakfast on the way." Reaching out, he pulled her off the seat and led her towards the door.

She dragged her feet dramatically. "But I'm not dressed for my grand entrance."

He glanced towards the skinny jeans and the silken top with a deep cleavage, and then smirked faintly at the new Louboutins. She looked good, more than good if he was to be honest, but he didn't want to be. "You look decent."

She gave him a wide eyes look, affronted. "Decent?" she exclaimed. "I'll let you know that I've never ever looked anything _close_ to decent all in my life."

"Well, there is a first time for anything." He pushed her through the open door. "Alfred, we'll be skipping the tea." He yelled to Alfred who was coming back into room, with a silver tray in his hands.

"Is that the smell of omelet?" Valerie asked before the door closed behind them.

* * *

God, board meetings were as boring as she had remembered but at least she wasn't in suits now, she thought from the bright side. Admittedly, the simple jeans and a regular blouse wouldn't have been her favorite attire to make her first 'official' appearance in Wayne Enterprises, but she had come to accept that when Bruce Wayne set his mind on something there was no turning back.

Blasted man! She sent a glare towards his direction, and boy, she wasn't the only one who was doing it. That stupid sound of _angry birds_ was grating on every one's nerves. She turned her attention from him and looked at the Gotham's view. From where she looked, on the upper steps, the city looked beautiful. Big buildings in dramatics forms, twirling towers in competition with Babel, and people, with big plans, and bigger hopes, down were going around. All the nasty things veiled under a powerful glamour, under a spell that was impossible to not be drawn. And drawn she was. It was strange, but she had missed this odd, rotting city.

Suddenly she had that funny feeling of someone watching you, the hair on your back standing up, calling your attention. With the corner of her eyes, she caught Fox's eyes sneaking upon her every from now and then. She caught his gaze, looking straight at him, and smiled the most facetious smile she could manage.

He turned his eyes away and Bruce, momentarily drawing his attention from the game, sent her a warning glare. She looked at him with her best _'who me'_ expression. So…it seemed he wasn't as unaware of his surroundings as he pretended to be.

After the board meeting, he retreated to his study and started to work on some reports immediately. He didn't have many opportunities to spend time in Wayne Tower, but she knew he still came and went as much as he could before he turned back to the manor to prepare for the night, if he could ever leave it, of course, before the evening time. Idly she wondered if he was going to attend any party. "Bruce, are we going any party tonight?"

He responded, eyes not diverting from the reports. "No."

She sighed out. What a chance. Her first day being officially Valerie-her thoughts came to a halt and she grimaced. She hadn't thought of any surname yet. Among other things to her 'to-do-list' she added that too.

And Bruce Wayne was _really_ giving his attention to mundane things like his company's business, she thought laughingly. She would have really liked to know that a year and half ago. It was good to know Wayne Enterprises wasn't being directed single handedly by that vicious man.

She paced back and forth around his office, studying the luxury room. It was the first time she was seeing it; even though six months wasted around here, she hadn't had the opportunity to see her so-called big boss's office. She hadn't understood that then, had thought like the rest of employees he had been either sleeping or fooling around with his secretary when he graced them with his presence, but now she could see why he wanted everyone out.

Goodness, for being an action packed personality he really _loved_ his studying.

She hopped up on his desk and poked him at the knee with the tip of her foot. "_Please_, at least tell me you're planning a very hostile takeover," she whined, tossing her head back.

Still not raising his head, he made a nonchalant noise but didn't reply to her properly. Curious, it was really curious. One day within his company and she was already feeling as frustrated as like…well, ever.

"I'm just giving a look to the final drafts of the Bruce Wayne Foundation—"he then informed her out of blue.

Her head snapped up, "You named a foundation to yourself?"

He pinched his nose with a shyish gesture, his eyes still fixed on his reports. "Well, there is already a Wayne Foundation so it has to be something else. Alfred thought it's fitting for Bruce Wayne's supposedly gigantic ego to name one personally after himself."

She'd always approached warily to people who addressed themselves in third person, but now she started to think about making amends to that particular thought. There was an amused contempt in his voice when he had spoken to her, like he hated but still enjoyed the act, at the same time.

Curiouser.

"We're planning to rebuild Gotham General Hospital."

She turned her attention back to him sharply. Bruce's gaze was inspecting _her_ now curiously. "Are you planning to name it after poor Cameron Reese?" she asked with a tone mocking, but her voice came out cutting like a sharp knife.

"No."

"Pity," she turned her head dismissively and hopped down.

"We're going to name it after Harvey Dent."

Her eyes widened as her attention drawn once again toward him. "You must be kidding. Is it not enough taking his blame, but now you're giving him a huge memorial too, like there aren't enough _already_?"

"Gotham needs to be whole again."

He said that with a dedicated tone, with a heat in his eyes, and momentarily she was struck. Then she rolled her eyes. "I assume there isn't any way to talk you out of it?"

He merely looked at her. She shrugged, "Thought so."

He stood up. "Come," he ordered.

"Where are we going?"

"—to a meeting to discuss the final drafts of _my_ foundation."

She looked at him with feigned shock. "You mean you will finally take partition in a meeting rather than…sleeping and playing?"

It earned her a very un-Brucie Wayne glower.

* * *

"Well, at least not another full board meeting," Bruce heard her muttering sotto voce, coming right behind his heel.

He sniffed then stopped himself. Just one day and she was already rubbing on him in the wrong ways. Seeing Fox, she glared at him, and Bruce once again wondered why she despised the old man that much.

He walked into his chair at the head of the table and sat on it with an easy manner. Fox stood up. "Mr. Wayne, let me introduce you with Ms. Tate. She's one of our junior executives at the Law Department."

Smiling charmingly, he stood up and shook hands with the middle aged woman with Asiatic features. "So pleased to have you in our family, Miss Tate," he said exaggeratedly, a little flirting, too, because she had a pretty face along with a nice figure, so that was expected of him.

Valerie beside him cleared her throat slightly. "Oh…here that's my new bodyguard, Valerie." He said cheerfully, pulling her to his side, arms circling her shoulder. "Vii, say hi to the people."

Valerie gave him an indignant look and sat on the seat next to him. He threw himself on his seat and clapped his hands on the table. "So what we have got on our hands?"

Rolling her eyes slightly, Valerie pulled his phone out of _her_ pocket and started to mingle with it. Momentarily dropping his act, he grimaced. The last time he had seen it, it had been where it belonged, in his pocket. Putting his charming glamour back on, he leaned down forward the table. "I'm all ears, folk."

Tate started to talk first; her voice thick, but clear and serene, without any accent, but the sounds coming off still strange out of her plum swollen lips, a feature not very common for her ancestry, and he guessed she was trying to a little much to impress him. There was a curtly bipping sound from Valerie's seat as she full-out glared at the machine as Tate's attention drew to her for a second. Then, collecting herself, she continued to explain the details about the necessary legal procedure for forming such an organization.

Another hour passed like this, Ms. Tate making most of the talking, the other two taking notes, when necessary raising objections, him looking bored to death, Fox listening with careful eyes, and Valerie playing with his phone, pretending like the rest of the room didn't exist.

Glancing at his watch, he abruptly stood up, cutting Ms. Tate words in half. It wasn't like she was going to tell him anything he already didn't know anyway. This hour had proven to be next to nothing, and he felt eager to put it an end and the most convenient thing with his public persona was that he never had to bother with pleasantries. "Sorry," he said with a tone implying that he wasn't and didn't care if it was to be known as well. "I've gotta dash. I've got a date and just remembered that I all but forgot about it."

He didn't lie. In fact, he really had a date tonight, only not with a woman as they thought. He had sent a message to Gordon for a meeting this morning. He was planning to put the Irish behind the bar ASAP, and they needed to share the intel. Besides, there was this issue with Valerie that he needed to discuss with Gordon.

He poked her on the shoulder. "Come, up, sweetie pie, we need to get going."

She fisted her hand around the phone but obeyed his order. When they were out of the room, she grunted, "You're a weary Richie Rich, _Brucie_."

He made her frustrated, how unexpected change of fate.

When they were inside the car, she poked him into chest. "Don't dare to treat me like a puppy again."

"How did you take my phone?" he countered.

She flashed at him a sweet smile. "When people annoy me, I snitch their things."

That wasn't exactly what he'd asked; he had very fast reflexes and too solid training to have been pickpocketed, so she had pulled out something wicked out her sleeve once again. Before he could question her further, she started speaking again, holding her hand forth. "May I have your credit card?"

"My what?"

"Your credit card, Bruce." She shook her head. "Will I need to repeat myself this often? Here I am thinking asking you simple questions."

"I understood what you asked, _Valerie_." He imitated her tone of saying 'Bruce', a roll over the tongue, silky, and demanding. "What I didn't understand is why you'd need it."

"You mean other than the fact that I don't have one? Hmm, let's see why I'd _need_ such a thing." She shoved the phone at his nose, where a pair of bright red shoes showing off. "I need to have these."

"More shoes?" he asked incredulous. "I just bought you a full collection."

She gave him a pitying look. "Since I'm back and off to market, I'll be needing shoes," she opened her palm expectantly, "lots of them."

He fished out his wallet and slapped the card in her palm.

"Thank you," she said, her expression was one of a mock gratitude.

* * *

_Ah, still with me? Nice! Wish I could write with less words, but alas, I'm not able to._

_Lucky Luke is a cartoon character who was very popular during my childhood, and the murder story in Pamela's part is a real-life event, unfortunately. I read it in papers several years ago, and it stayed with me ever since._


	8. Chapter 8-Part I

_A/N: Hello. I think the length continues to be a problem, so I'm trying this time posting things as in parts. We'll see how it'll be. _

_So here the first part of the Chapter Eight._

_In which nothing really happens :) These are just, you know, um, let's call them, warming ups. _

**Chapter Eight - Part I:**

* * *

The sound of nails scratching against metal echoed in the emptiness of the cave as she rhythmically tapped her fingers beside the keyboard. Sanders… no. Bale… not again. Campbell… dull. Collins… hmm… She hummed to herself, thinking of her last surname. Valerie Collins. Nope. Dull again.

Her attention turned toward Alfred who was dusting the equipment with a funny looking brush. She stopped tapping, sniffed, and looked back at the green dots. Tonight she wouldn't need to monitor them. Bruce had said he would make an appearance to the police commissioner and had hinted vaguely that for those times he personally took care of the necessary precautions.

She hadn't minded, even despite the fact that she hadn't still wrapped her mind around the notion that the Commissioner himself worked with Batman. Out of habit she found the police quite unnecessary most of the time. But Bruce seemed to trust the man, which she suspected wasn't a common thing for him, and that soothed her for the time being.

She spoke to him through the wireless. "I'm bored."

Batman or Bruce or both ignored her. She didn't really mind Batman ignoring her but Bruce was another story, so she suggested helpfully, "Why don't we find you a couple of bad boys who are in a dire need of learning some manners?"

He hissed, "Stop distracting me."

"You're not doing anything," she hissed back with faux-seriousness.

Again she was confronted with silence… She huffed, dropped her head on the table, and pressed her hand over her mouth to stifle a yawn. "At least tell me when you will return."

It was amazing how fast he answered her. "Are you tired? Are you feeling any pain?" So he had been listening then.

She laughed. "_Chill out_… I just need a little sleep. The time difference is a bitch," she reminded him.

Bruce grunted which she took as affirmative. "I won't be long. Gordon should come in any minute." He paused. "You can rest if you want."

"And leave you deprived of my charming company? I wouldn't dream of it."

He ignored her again. Both Bruce and Batman had become very good at that. "Where is Alfred?"

She cast another glance at the old man and lowered her voice. "He's… dusting."

"I see," he answered, but she had no idea what he saw.

For a minute Bruce was silent; then he spoke again with a more guttural hoarse whisper, but it was not directed to her. "Did you look at the files I gave to you?"

She thought of the blend that she'd drunk in Wales. She should probably start making it or else Bruce Wayne might meet his untimely demise from throat cancer.

"Yes. We managed to find his money launderers but they will probably be acquitted in the next trial. The evidence we have is circumstantial and the judges don't want to see anything that could even remotely be tied to you," he said apologetically and not without frustration.

She grimaced. Bruce should have known. Batman wasn't a poster boy anymore. "Doesn't matter," he rasped out. "They're planning to move another shipment within the next month. We will catch them then." Ah… well, so that was the reason; drive them into a corner until they started to play dirty? Valerie could understand that. After what had happened last year, even the mob was being careful.

"We know next to nothing about that shipment," Gordon countered, his frustration becoming more noticeable. "We need to know their plans. I suspect they're smuggling weapons again."

"We will."

The commissioner paused, "The war is coming."

_Batman_, of course, wasn't moved a bit by the older man's bleak prophesy. "I'll be there to meet it." He paused for a beat and then said bluntly,"There is something else." She laughed. That was Batman's kindest way to ask for a _favor_. "I need an unused social security number, completely untraceable. Can you manage it?"

"I—"the Commissioner stumbled on the words. "I—guess I can pull out one under the Witness Protection Program," he paused. "Is everything okay?"

Instead of an answer, there was a familiar flapping sound. Leaving people behind with unanswered questions, unsatisfied, she thought. How typical. "Run the dots," he ordered before a loud engine roared through the comm. "I'm returning."

"Roger that," she obeyed, smiling then turned to Alfred. "Alfred, why don't you call it a night?" she offered in her sweetest tone. "He's coming back."

The butler looked uncertain. "He can manage by himself for a couple of minutes. Besides I'll be here."

Alfred nodded and started to leave. "If something happens—"

She cut him off, "I'll be sure to call you back." She winked at him. "See me in your dreams."

He tilted his head. "Goodnight, Miss Valerie."

She looked at his retreating back and then started tapping her fingers again. Where was she? Hmm, Irvine, Valerie Irvine. Nope, so very obvious. O'Connor. She crossed it immediately in mind. With a thundering that reverberating the cave, Bruce returned. He hoped down with a swift motion from his—bike, his cowl already between his hands. "You didn't need to wait for me."

She shrugged. "I told Alfred I would."

"Where is he?" he questioned, entering the cabin to take off his armor.

"I sent him to bed when you said you were returning." She waited for him to emerge. When the doors started to slide she continued as if she'd never stopped. "He needs rest. Why don't you send him off for a couple of days?"

Drying his perspired hair with a towel, Bruce seemed pondering on it. She pondered where else he could be sweaty. "You're probably right—"

"I'm always right," she interrupted.

"—the problem is getting him to accept that."

She leapt to his side and looped her hand through his arm. God, he really must have sweated all over. It was salty, fresh, mixing with his natural odor and very crazily manly. She recalled her thoughts from the other interesting places they had started to wander. She started walking, dragging him. "Since I'm back, darling, you'll see things will be changing."

* * *

The Police Commissioner James Gordon flipped through the pages of the complaints on his desk, his back resting against his chair behind the massive desk on the upmost floor at the Police Quarters, and looked at Burke with a hard face. His mood was bleak, his mood had been bleak since that day on 23th Corner Street, and the latest news about Harvey Bullock wasn't helping the matter either.

"I trusted you with him, Tommy," he said at last, shoving the complaint aside with the back of his hand. "You said you could handle him."

"I could, Commish—" The younger detective protested, his voice tight yet reasonably respectful, and his face suggesting that it was a struggle to keep it like that. "Last night was an accident."

"He crashed into a pet shop," Gordon cried, hands hitting on the desk, "Blind drunk, nevertheless."

"An accident," Burke repeated again as his tone grew a little more with edge. "We talked with the owner. He was very _understanding_."

Gordon frowned. "What about the last questionnaire then?" His finger pointed to another complaint over the pile of sheets that waited for him. "That was an accident too?" He took the sheet. "_Question: What would you do if you weren't a police officer? Answer: I'd be a killer._"

Burke turned his gaze away. This little meeting with the commissioner was getting drearier with each passing minute. "He gave his defense for that—accident."

"Yes; _Defense: I've never heard such an absurd question in all my life._"

"Well, he was right. That poll was pure bullshit!"

A heavy fist hit on the table again. "That's not the point!" Gordon paused, catching his breath. "I've known him longer than you, Thomas, he's _my_ friend, but he's getting hard to contain. I'm telling you this because he wouldn't listen. If he keeps doing this, I'll be forced to resign him."

"You can't do that, Commish," Burke protested, standing up, all respect forgotten.

"I don't _want_ to." Gordon admitted. God, it was something else he didn't need to deal with. There was a mob war coming; they didn't need to deal with these kinds of distractions but Harvey Bullock was a friend, a good friend, and he'd been always a good officer, something almost impossible to find in this city. "That's why I'm assigning him to see a shrink."

Burke gaped at him. "Don't look at me like that, son. He'll see the doctor. I have to give _something_ to IA." He sighed. "I've already arranged it. Professor Quinzel is an occasional consultant for the force and has been working with us on some cases for a time. She will give us a good report."

Burke nodded. "I know it's hard for him. It was hard for everyone. I'd known Laura since she was a little girl, hugging my legs," Gordon paused for a second, his gaze flicked towards to the windows, where Gotham loomed, dangerous and beautiful; always asking for sacrifices. "It was… hard for everyone but he needs to get himself back together."

"Yes, Commish." Burke answered, his gaze lowered.

"Can I count on you? I know you love him as your father."

"Always, Commish, always."

* * *

Bruce passed the next three days burying himself in research, trying to find anything related to that upcoming shipment, but judging by his frustrated state she could easily see he hadn't had much luck. She accompanied him when he went to work, monitored his dots at nights, helped with his research when he asked for her assistance, and all was good, quiet, calm.

_Dull._

Then again, Alfred was leaving tonight for his brief—two days away—vacation, then it would be only two of them. Bruce had finally managed to convince the old stubborn goat, reassuring him that all would be fine during his absence, while she'd asserted that she could take care of Bruce while the old man was away. Alfred had looked skeptical at first but then had agreed, albeit with all the reluctance he could have gathered up.

At that moment Valerie had scarcely held back from pointing out that Bruce Wayne wasn't a small child anymore that needed his constant care but a full grown man who had other kinds of needs that required other kinds of care.

He probably wouldn't have understood what she'd meant anyway.

* * *

At his next appointment, Lucky Luke again came twenty minutes early. The secretary opened the door again with an exasperated face, and offered coffee (one sugar, no cream) while he waited for the Professor to arrive. He gazed at the lovebirds: the couple—one in blue the other in yellow—annoyingly twittering in their frilly cage, asking for each other's attention and disturbing his solitude. The Professor arrived at three sharp, ushered him inside, and waited for him to talk.

He didn't, so in his place she did. "So, your friends… Bas—" She paused for a beat then amended quickly, "Dan and Bubble Yum. What happened to them?"

"We fell apart a few years later. You really move around in the system a lot." The Professor nodded. "In fact we even didn't see each other again until a couple of years ago."

The Professor nodded again, scratching on her clipboard, "Must have been quite an occasion."

"Oh, it was."

_x_

The Major Jarhead was the CO of a U.S Marines team, a very accomplished soldier who had been promoted for his exceptional services in Iraq, and Boy was just a plain private, cast out.

"You took Chewby," the accomplished soldier repeated slowly.

Chewby, short for Chewbacca was the Major's obese, hairy cat, for the Major was a Star Wars fan. He'd found the poor kitten limping on a deserted street in Baghdad, and he'd been taking care of the poor creature ever since.

Boy nodded. "You hid him."

Boy nodded again. "And I have to find him," another nod, "Because he hasn't got much time left."

Again a nod and Boy tightened himself in anticipation of pain. "Are you fucking with me, private?" The Major bellowed.

When the hits came, Boy understood the worst had come to pass. That was the worst: waiting, waiting for the pain, for the blows to come; and when they did, he realized that there would be no way, no way in hell that he would talk. It was a comforting revelation.

He didn't talk.

For two days he was held in the brig; then on the third, behind in an old carton box of biscuits in the mess, Chewby was found. The cat's eyes were dazed, misted over, and inside the carton were scratches from claws.

Upon discovering that his poor kitten had been put into a fucking box still alive, the Major decided to put Boy into a small box, too. With the other jarheads on his team, he discussed which the filthiest, the most darkened cell was in the compound.

At dawn, they agreed on one, and shoved him in there. Boy didn't mind the darkness and learned to put up with rats—enormous rats, big as his arm. A week later, he almost wished for their company, for they reminded him that he was still alive, not buried, and offered him a reason to fight.

One day, not particularly different than others, they put some punks into the cell next to his; two people, one begging, trying to explain; 'There must be a misunderstanding going on here, sir, we wouldn't never rob the military; we would never rob anyone, just a simple confusion—"

The other, screaming and kicking, "You son of bitches, why you hitting, you motherfuckers—"

"Shut up, you dolt, shut up, we're going to be screwed up and beaten yet again because of you."

Boy smiled a little smile. He could recognize those voices from anywhere. When they were thrown into cell, he waited till the guards left then he called tentatively, "Hello?"

There was a silence from the other side of the wall; then a hesitant 'Hello?' came back.

"Bubble, Bastard, you haven't changed at all," he said, smiling.

"Oi, Boy, is that you?"

"As I live and breathe." Bubble let out a curse, Bastard swore, and if there hadn't been walls between, Boy knew, they would have even hugged each other.

"Bubble, take that hand off!" Bastard chimed in.

"Hand… what fucking hand?"

"It probably isn't a hand: rats," Boy provided helpfully, Bastard gave out a wail then Boy added. "Watch out ears." There had been a series of interesting curses from other side then Boy asked, "What happened?"

They told him about their new business; a moving company, and the job in the military lodgings; he laughed, Bubble picked up an interesting piece of language, then Bastard asked, "Why are you here?"

He shook his shoulders, kicking a rat between his feet. "Just a misunderstanding."

They exchanged their phone numbers, addresses, memorizing each and the next morning, just before the guards showed up to collect his oldest friends, Bubble Yum asked suddenly, as if he just remembered it, "Ho, bro, why did you take the Principal's fish?"

Boy smiled a little smile, "Just for practice."

_x_

The Professor scratched again on her clipboard in front of her and asked, "How long did you stay there?"

"Several months until the Major went for his second tour. The new major got me out and discharged me."

"What are you doing now?"

"I'm in between jobs. Before, I was in the sculpture business."

"Pardon me?"

"Monuments and such, we cast molds. Most people don't know it, but molding is a very mechanical process—"

"Are you a technician?" the Professor asked.

He shrugged. "I was studying Mechanical Engineering in college before I dropped out."

"I see."

"I was working with an Italian designer's team. Those standard bald eagles that the Mayor puts around, I'm pretty good with them, and with Harvey Dent's nose."

The Professor remained in silence for a while then slowly repeated, "I see." He didn't still have any slightest idea _what_ it was that she was seeing. "Why did you quit?"

He shrugged once again. "I didn't. They kicked me out."

"Why?"

"That, I believe, is a story for another time."

* * *

There was something at his side, a soft thing poking him. He turned and opened his eyes.

Slumped back against the armchair in front of his bed, one arm draped causally over the armrest, her legs propped on the mattress, Valerie poked him again with one bare foot. He stared at her. She was clad in sports attire; a shockingly pink shorts barely covering half of her thighs and a white tight tank-top; her hair was up in a messy ponytail. Her face and body were flushed, and there was a faint trace of sweat that showed she had been working out. Her left hand was holding a paper sheet.

"Rise and shine, sleepyhead," she greeted him cheerfully. "You have less than an hour to prepare to go to lunch with someone called—" She brought the paper up to her face, on which Bruce recognized Alfred's discreet hand writing. "Mr. Elliot. I was to wake you up one hour ago, but I got caught up with my yoga."

She got up from her seat and went to his mini bar. He pulled the duvets off himself and rose from the bed. "You do yoga?" he asked suspiciously.

She shrugged, bending down to look for the wet bar. "Good for the soul, better for the body," she slightly sing-sang, trashing through the fridge. Checking the hips that were raised directly in his sight, Bruce had to concur with that point. She straightened, the bottle Alfred had prepared before he had gone to his vacation in her hand.

She opened the lid, brought it to her nose, sniffing and—made a face. "Argh… it smells hideous. How can you drink this?"

He ignored her question, took the bottle out of her hand and drank the green supplement in one swing, then caught her watching him with gleaming eyes. He averted his gaze and dropped down to begin his push-ups.

That proved to be wrong move too as, with the corner of his eye, he saw her eyes darkening as she gnawed her bottom lip. He abruptly stopped, and stood up. Suddenly working out didn't seem like a good idea.

His eyes skipped toward her. "We need to prepare."

She licked her lip, and took a step closer. "Be my guest," she murmured as her eyes riveted on his chest.

He gave her a look. She lifted her eyes up and caught his gaze. The brief pause stretched further as they stared each other, momentarily stilled in silence. And whether the shorts was really short, or her legs were _really_ long, Bruce couldn't decide. Suddenly she moved, took another step to infiltrate his personal space.

Turning aside, he broke the tense silence, and walked to the bathroom. "Be ready in fifteen minutes."

Before he stepped through the doorsill, the corner of his eye caught the baffled expression on her face. He then went to the shower and turned the tap to cold.

* * *

Cursing under breath, she went back to her own room to prepare. Idiot! First waking up in that state, then drinking that disgusting stuff in that way, then doing those stupid push-ups like that, then giving her looks like that, _then_ dismissed her this way.

Inconsiderate bastard!

It had hit her sudden and hard, and she could still feel tell-tale pull deep inside her, as if every muscle down there were throbbing with need. Admittedly, she had never been the one to get aroused with difficulty, she'd been always the _easy one_, but this was certainly a little bit too easy, even for her standards. She shouldn't be aroused this much by something as simple as a naked chest (with countless faint old scars, new ones, and bruises) and a few push-ups, and it didn't matter how that naked chest was broad and nicely formed, and what else the arms doing those push-ups could do, specifically to her.

She was a seductress and a damn good one too; she could bring men, even women in some cases, to their knees by simply looking at them. She couldn't—shouldn't let one man bring her to the state of a trembling virgin on her wedding night.

Yet the throbbing in her core didn't seem to cease.

She growled and gave up. With a menacing angle, her thoughts turned back to him again. She wondered what _he_ was doing now. He had been affected too, she had noticed, unfortunately not profoundly like her and certainly not enough to put an end to her misery by means of a quickie. She sighed, put the thoughts of his stupidity aside for a better time, and went to bathroom to take care of her little problem.

* * *

_A/N: Valerie poking Bruce to wake him up must seem to familiar some of those. It's a Fiona thing from Burn Notice. In fact, it was her first appearance in the pilot. Hah, for me, it was pretty much the love at the first sight:) I love Fi to the bits, in fact, aside Vala Mal Doran, some of Valerie's characteristics are directly inspired by Fiona, like her being Irish etc._


	9. Chapter 8-Part II

_**A/N:** An incredibly, not to mention shockingly, __boring _workday, _thought I could benefit from it._

_Enjoy the second part of the chapter in which _nothing_ continues happening. Oh, Bruce gets punched in the nose, but that doesn't count. ;)_

**Chapter Eight - Part II:**

* * *

Showered, dressed, and her little problem taken care of, she returned back to the hall half an hour later. Upon the sight of her, he stood up from the table. "Ready?"

"Ravenous," she stressed the blatant innuendo, letters forming low in her throat, and watched as Bruce's expression stayed the same, blank as ever. The moment of unusual…affection had already passed.

But he smirked after a second, folding his arms. "Care to prepare the food?"

She walked toward him. "On second thought," she said as she passed him, "let's go."

They made their way to the city center with relative ease, and Valerie kept her silence while she flipped through the radio channels without staying on one. He parked in front of the building in his reserved spot and got out of the car. "I'm not coming with you," she informed him.

He turned back to her. "Excuse me?"

"I'm your bodyguard, not your lapdog. I'm going to see the city." She sighed. "I've missed it."

"Aren't bodyguards supposed to be beside the people they protect?"

"Don't worry. I can protect you with my brain power from afar."

"You're my bodyguard," he insisted. "You need to act like one."

"Well, I don't want to—"She paused for a second. "Today. Tell them you sent me away for an important business or something."

"Valerie—"

Suddenly her expression stiffened, and she said, "You're not the boss of me, Bruce Wayne."

Bruce turned her look back, eyes sharpened in inquisitiveness, then finally nodded. Not your prisoner, he passed in his mind. "Okay. I'm going to send you a driver."

"Your car suits me just fine," she said, and slid herself into the driver's seat. Lifting her head, she opened her hand and waved her fingers.

Sighing faintly, Bruce dropped the keys on her palm. "Can I hope to get it back in one piece?"

She shrugged. "We'll see." With a swift motion, she backed the car up and put the throttle on. Bruce watched her speeding away, wondering how many speeding tickets he would get…which reminded him that she didn't have a license in the first place, or an ID for that matter. Oh, hell.

He spent the next two hours in his office, looking over the donations the Wayne Foundation was going to make within the next Fall. Fox had been nagging him for a time, and it was the high time that Bruce Wayne set his signature on the papers as well. He really preferred to start working on the next cases; he needed to expand the money launderer's file, and he had heard some disturbing rumors that someone had started to run drugs laced with fear toxin on the streets again. But it was the name of his parents attached to the foundation, and the board simply wasn't known for being loyal. He had to make sure that the money was going to those who needed it.

Around noon, he paged his secretary to arrange for a driver. Ten minutes later, he was going toward Monroe's Men's Club. He took his phone out and dialed the phone he had given her. She picked it up on the first ring. "Where are you?"

"Downtown, shopping," she replied. "I bought a gorgeous dress. You'll love it."

He frowned. "How exactly did you buy it? Valerie," he asked with dread, "I'm not going to have to break you out, am I?"

She laughed hard at him. "Bruce, you flatter me. Don't worry, the only theft pertaining to this case is of your credit card."

His frown grew wider as he grimaced. He pulled his wallet out and searched through it to find that his executive American Express was missing. "I took it while you were sleeping," she supplied helpfully, as if sensing his actions.

"You could ask for it, you know," he snapped.

She laughed again. "I could."

In the background he heard distant ambulance sirens, and people screaming. "Where did you say you are?" he asked, suspicious.

"City Hall district," she replied quickly. "Oh… gotta go. I think I just fell in love. Do you have—" And the line was gone even before her question was completed.

Two hours later, she plunged into his office without knocking, arms full with packages which she flung on the couch beside his desk before throwing herself next to them. Without missing a beat she began talking, jumping from one topic to another, and this time even he couldn't follow her; how dumping on house sales could result in the conclusion that Japanese tourists could never go anywhere without their cameras was a mystery to him. "—I mean, there are people out there who think it's hilarious—can you imagine?!"

No, he couldn't. He stood up. "We need to get going."

Within an instant, she was on her feet. "Can I drive the car?"

For some unknown reason, he found himself nodding. He was rewarded with half of a genuine smile before she leaped beside him. "Can we go to a party tonight?" She looped her hand through his arm. "Because, you know, the dress I bought… I can't wait for you to see it."

He gave her a cool look. "I'll have to wait for another night."

She could make an impressive example for how _not _to drive. She cut in and out between cars, fast, her face glowing with the thrill of speed. Weaving between two cars, she stepped on the gas, laughing aloud.

"Slow down," he yelled as the cars flew by them. Batman could jump from roofs, chasing mad people with big trucks, but what he did wasn't thrill seeking, not like this. Besides, she was a damn _horrible_ driver, Bruce added his thoughts, as they missed running into the car next to them at the last second. "_Slow down_," he yelled once again.

Her eyes momentarily skipped to him. "Scared?"

"Of your driving skills?" he shot back. "YES."

She pressed the gas harder. "You're no fun." She made a right turn without slowing and they swung to the side of the curve, Valerie barely guiding the car back onto Wayne Lane. They flew down the road as Bruce hastily took out the remote control for the main entrance and opened the two-winged door before they crashed into it.

Driving inside, she finally remembered the brake pedal, pressed it, and the silver sports car skidded to a stop just in front of the manor staircase.

"Bloody hell—" he yelled angrily, in a perfect imitation of a certain English gentleman.

"Still have doubts about my driving skills?" she asked, leaning back.

"More like having doubts in other areas," he snapped.

She laughed loudly. "Why, Bruce, are you casting aspersions on my mental wellbeing?" She gave him a side glance and opened the door. "Don't bother. I've been diagnosed as a histrionic personality with sociopathic tendencies."

Baffled, he looked at her retreating back as she climbed the staircase and vanished behind the main door. He got out of the car, ascending the stairs slowly. He went directly to his study and turned on his computer. He first typed 'histrionic personality' then 'sociopathy'. He was aware of what they meant, had even recognized some signs on both personality disorders among the limited time they had spent in each other's company, but he wanted to be certain. He started to read:

_Pervasive _attention-seeking_ behavior; inappropriately seductive behavior; sexual provocativeness and shallow or exaggerated emotions. Associated features include egocentrism, self-indulgence, continuous longing for appreciation, and persistent manipulative behavior and constant lying to achieve their own needs_.

Sociopathy continued with:

_Egocentricity, callousness; impulsivity; lack of empathy, conscience defect; exaggerated sexuality; excessive boasting; risk taking; inability to resist temptation; violent behavior; antagonistic, deprecating attitude toward the opposite sex; lack of interest in bonding with a mate._

Frowning, he stared at the screen while more results poured in as if someone was listing all of Valerie's charming attributes for him. He turned off the computer. Even with her diagnosis she could be trying to manipulate him—if she had been diagnosed in the first place. He was already aware that she had Issues, with capital I, but he would be the last person on the earth who could judge her on them anyway. God knew, he had gallons of his own.

He went to his room to change into a pair of sweats and a dark top. He needed to organize his thoughts, empty his mind. He would have preferred a serene hour of mediation, but he'd had to skip his morning exercise, and he was a man of self-discipline. He went to the lowest floor of the manor where his private gym was located.

And upon entering the room, of course, he had to be greeted by Valerie who was beating the hell out of his practice dummy. This living together thing was becoming a little too inconvenient for his tastes. She was clothed more properly than the morning, in leggings and a sweater loosely draped over one shoulder. Her fists collided with the dummy's head, feet kicking at its torso.

She turned around, threw a kick, and then stopped. "Came to sweat it out?" she asked in between breaths.

Not knowing how to answer, he nodded.

She threw him a roll of boxing bandages and quirked an eyebrow. She jumped onto the small ring beside the practice dummy and began jumping on her toes. "Come on, get up here. Let's see what you're made of."

He stared at her. "I can drop you in two seconds without breaking a sweat."

Laughing, she swayed on her feet, swinging her hips. "Promises, promises." She stopped her mocking movements, raised her chin, and challenged him with a look. "Humor me."

He pulled himself up and through the rope. "Did you do your research?" she asked tauntingly, circling him, her eyes glinting with a predatory spark. "They tell interesting things about us."

"They didn't tell me anything I didn't already know." His eyes warily checked her before he said, "Stop. I don't want to hurt you."

She laughed. "You won't. You're much too honorable for that." She said 'honorable' like an insult before she leapt at him with quick steps and tried to punch him in the nose. He ducked before her fist collided with his flesh with practiced ease, effortlessly reaching for her arm and turning her around, he twisted it behind. She whimpered softly as her back collided with his chest, her arm barricaded between the two bodies. "Stop it, or you'll get hurt," he warned flatly.

She raised her heel toward his crotch in answer, aiming a back kick, and threw her head backward.

He took a step back, breath caught in his throat. Turning around, she took one too, bending in half, her head inclined forward between her hands, her expression distorted with pain. She straightened, and then approached him, throwing another kick. He ducked again and backed off. "Come on, don't hold yourself back." She flashed him a mocking smile before she sneered, "Don't you want to beat me a little bit, chasten me? God knows I've made you frustrated enough for days." She approached him to try another swing, and again he caught her at the wrist.

He flipped her around back on his chest again, and words popped out of their own will in a hoarse hiss, directly into her ear. "I wasn't the only one this morning."

She chuckled low, reaching back for his hair. She pulled it with all of her strength, trying to take a step forward to break his grip. He let her go and caught her hair too. She took a few steps again and he pulled her back by hair. Laughing, she let her grip go, swayed on her legs, and waved her arms in the air for balance, her spine arching toward him, her laughter full of dirty mirth. "Oh my, I was, wasn't I? Wonder how I got myself off?"

Sexually provocative, he thought. "It took just two fingers and even less minutes." He released her hair as her taunting voice turned into a drawl. "And I was thinking of you the whole time."

He gave her a look which concluded with Valerie swirling and punching him hard in the nose. She took a step back and flashed a cat-smug smirk.

"Well, this took some steam off, certainly," she said, her eyes laughing. "We'll have to do this more often."

"Glad you feel that way," he snapped tersely, holding his nose.

She rolled her eyes, closed in on him, her eyes inspecting his nose. "Don't be a sissy. Your past injuries clearly indicate you've been through much worse."

He glared at her.

She laughed, this time coyly. "That's enough for me for today. I'll leave you alone now to—work out." Then she threw him a little wink.

Unbelievable, she was damn unbelievable.

* * *

Now that felt much better. Truthfully, she hadn't planned to say anything to Bruce about her… psychological wellbeing, but sometimes her mouth outran her brain, and her common sense, not that she had particularly any. While it couldn't be said that she was the most subtle person on earth, when it came to the fine art of innuendo she preferred double-entendres, not over-the-top bean spilling. But it had earned her a good punch so she wasn't going to complain. Besides, just _that_ look on his face was enough of reward, even without the punch.

After all, she was the attention freak who broke the lights because they hadn't lit while she passed by.

Taking off her sweat soaked clothes, she hit the shower. Under the warm water in the luxury tub, she wondered if she had managed to make things even more complicated. Apart from some— innocent flirting, she had yet to make a serious move on him, but this morning had made some things clear. She had been sure that when she came back things would be different; they had grown a tad bit closer over the months she had been away, and there was that spark which sometimes got to a point that she couldn't properly breathe, yet she hadn't still managed to get him to even kiss her.

And that was annoying; simply irritating.

Her charms had never failed her before. Her face might have changed but her demeanor, the way she acted, the way she carried herself, in other words, the things that mattered the most had not. And she was still quite, perhaps even more, attractive. There was no reason she could think of to explain this abnormality besides admitting that somehow she had lost her charms.

But again, one subject was definitely not sufficient for bullet-proof conclusions, which meant she needed more data. Concisely put; more suitors.

He had said something about a party tomorrow night, hadn't he?

She changed into a pair of jeans and a simple t-shirt and went down to the cave. She pulled up Bruce's files—tabs on MCU, searching for a particular name. A while ago, while she was still in Puerto Vallarta, she had decided that having her own eyes and ears in the MCU wouldn't hurt. Bruce's collaboration with the commissioner was good and sound but she was reluctant to leave the police problem solely in his hands. Never hurt to be too careful, anyway. And she already had a name in mind for that.

She looked at the Latino woman grimacing at her from the slick screen. From Alfred's scrappy little remarks, she'd gathered the hard-bitten Detective Ramirez had gotten fair and square from last year's happenings. Gordon hadn't known what to do with her without any real evidence of her dealings with the mob, so she kept her job in return for her silence regarding Harvey Dent's last hours. But despite that, judging by what she saw on the screen, Valerie could easily tell that the woman was in self-destruction mode. She smirked contently. Ramirez was just the thing she was looking for.

Noticing Bruce's entrance, she hastily shut the file down and returned to the main screen of security cameras and dots. He didn't acknowledge her, sitting in his place at the main hub, looking solemn as usual. She decided to have a little mercy and left him alone to do whatever the hell he was going to do, and sat quietly on her chair, surfing the Internet.

After a while, he declared, "I'm hungry."

Her attention didn't waver from the online shopping store, as she tried to decide what color would go better with the shoes she liked, green or yellow. "So?"

"Since you're filling in for Alfred—"

"The human body can sustain itself for six weeks if it's not dehydrated," she stated matter-of-factly before suggesting helpfully, "I strongly recommend you drink water."

"Something simple would suffice," he said, ignoring her kind recommendation.

"Good to know," she paused, biting the corner of her lips; the green one, yes, the green one was definitely better. "Go buy a restaurant."

"I'll get you two Manolo Blahniks."

That made her pause, the green shoes on the screen momentarily forgotten. She turned in her chair to face him. "Five."

"Three."

"Four," she countered.

"Deal."

"Deal." She hopped down and left the cave.

Approximately half an hour later, she returned, a small McDonald's bag in hand. Smiling, she dropped it on his keyboard. Bruce stared it and turned to her. "Four Blahniks and you get me a big Mac?" he asked, eyeing the contents of the bag. "And not even a meal?"

She shrugged. "Something simple. Name your terms better the next time you make yourself a deal." She opened her palm. "Credit card, please?"

"Why ask?" he said, grudgingly. "You've already memorized it."

She shook her head, amused. "Seriously, Bruce, one would think you'd already got it." She bent toward his ear and whispered slowly, as if she let him in on a big secret, "It's more fun this way."

* * *

When Alfred returned, he was going to get a raise, Bruce thought absently, biting into the burger. Taking the bag with her, she went to her seat and suddenly a low noise filled the cave. He leaned back to see YouTube open on her screen before she tugged earbuds into her ears, silencing it.

She took the last bite from her burger, munching on it with muffled humming and threw the bag in the direction of the waste bin. She didn't check to see if it made it.

And, of course, it did. Suddenly she tore the buds off and stared at the computer, lost in thought. The song started to play for a second before she silenced it off, and stood up. "Alfred is coming back tomorrow night?"

He nodded. "Yes." The relief in his voice didn't go unnoticed.

"Missed him so quickly?"

"Well, he doesn't bring me burgers for dinner."

"Snob," she snorted. "I'll go get fresh air for a little bit. I'll be back before you go out."

He blinked twice. "What—why—I mean, where?"

She chuckled. "Out," she continued walking away toward the lift. "As surprisingly good as your company is, darling, I'm a social creature, I need socializing."

Social creature, Bruce thought, his brows knitting. Just a few hours ago she had declared herself sociopathic. Annoyed yet again, he stared at her retreating back but let her have her way, just not without a warning. "Be back before midnight."

She half turned before getting into the lift to give him a small smile. "Don't worry, I won't turn to cinder."

* * *

Johnny's Place was full of cops, she could easily see it at first glance. Some already retired, some still waiting; it reeked of everything in the world that could be associated with cops: low diligence, disinterest, grievances over self-importance, and a weariness that bordered on desperation.

With quick eyes, she searched the bar and found what she was looking for. It was one of three pubs that she usually hung out at after a long day on the job, and it was the first one that she checked, and it turned out tonight was her lucky night.

Not wasting another moment, she went and sat on the stool next to her. It was a bold move given that the rest of bar was almost empty, but she didn't care; she wasn't planning on playing 'subtle' tonight.

And it looked like she had already passed weary and was living in desperate. A malt whiskey was in her hand, and she sipped it quietly, head bowed in thought. There were heavy bags under her eyes, her shoulders hunched down as if she held the world on them, her eyes thoughtful and suggesting that she had seen the world at its worst and survived through it, and bore that knowledge with tons of bitterness underneath.

Excellent. Valerie glanced at her wrists, wondering if the battered detective had already tried to do something about it. Clean. She went to the juke box and searched for the song she had been thinking of. She had been searching through songs back at the cave and she had decided on one about secrets and life, but here, now, she had doubts. Deciding that she needed a more direct approach, she settled on another. It had a brisk yet depressing vibe, but still the vocal saying it was hopeful. She smiled, thinking perfect.

She returned to the bar and ordered a drink. Ramirez glanced toward her momentarily, eyes wary but not quite caring as she turned back to her drink.

Making slow circles with her bottle, Valerie hummed along, "Everyone is alone in their ice castle, wishing for someone to come melt the ice; everyone is a warrior in their war, wishing someone would drop their guard. Everyone is after forgiveness, wishing their sins could be forgotten."

"She's right, isn't she?" she commented as Ramirez turned a sharp eye to her. She smiled wearily. "Everyone is wishing for something." Then she locked her eyes on hers. "What do you wish for, Ramirez?"

The detective's face hardened, and she started to stand from her stool. "Who sent you? I said I'm not gonna—"

"Easy—" She waved a reassuring hand. "I'm not here for what you think I am."

"Then why are you here?"

"You know about forgiveness, don't you, Ramirez? How much you need it and how hard you've tried to get it. But it never comes easy, because before you can be forgiven, there has to be retribution; a price to pay, a debt to settle." She paused for a breath, her eyes drilling through her. "Do you want it? Because I can give it to you. I know everything, Detective. I know what Harvey Dent tried to do to you."

Ramirez was silent, thoughtful. Then she asked, "What do you want from me?"

"Nothing you will regret later."

She laughed, bitter. "That's what they said at first."

Valerie held her eyes, and said, "But I am not them." Ramirez didn't turn her gaze away either. "I need your help, and through that, you can help Batman too. You can pay your _debt_."

"I don't understand," Ramirez mumbled. "He works alone. He just has—" she stopped.

"Gordon," Valerie though completed for her. She was _not_ going for subtle tonight. The detective's eyes widened. "But a commissioner is a commissioner. He needs a little more direct contact with MCU."

"Do you work for Batman?" There was astounded disbelief in Ramirez's tone. She couldn't blame her, really. Sometimes even she couldn't believe that. Not just her working for Batman part but her working for _anyone._

"We've come to a sort of agreement," she echoed Bruce's earlier words and searched the eyes of the battered police officer. "Do you believe me?"

Ramirez didn't answer her for a while. "Yeah," she said at last, as if she wasn't very content with her decision.

"He spends a lot of time running from you. Precautions were taken, but I want—need someone inside, just in case." Ramirez nodded. "I'll get you an untraceable line for our next meeting. A week from today, say, here on the back street?"

Ramirez shrugged. "Okay."

She jumped down from her stool. "This is the beginning of a good relationship, detective. You will see. You won't regret this decision."

Leaving the detective behind, she hoped she wouldn't either.

* * *

_For any curiosity, Valerie will be __eventually _toned down, but the operative word here is 'eventually.' These kind of things take time, besides I wanted to see how far I could play with that notion.

___See ya at the next time._

_**Edit:** Oh, I forgot to mention something really important, as it deserves a special mentioning. This chapter wouldn't be the same without the **Godspeed Revolution's** insightful objections regarding to some of Valerie's attributions, and for making me see some _horrible_ writing. Such a failure, I'm almost ashamed. So I'm thanking her once again for the help._

_And the second special thanks go to_**_ Enaskoritsi _**_for her good catch, again regarding some of Valerie's reactions to a half-naked Bruce Wayne. _


	10. Chapter 9

_**A/N:** Hello, I'm back._

_Last night it occurred to me that I possibly need to make a few warnings here and there, but I don't want to label the story with such remarks. So, be fairly warned, dearest reader, as the story progresses, it's gonna be 'here be dragons'._

_And I have a confession to make too. I really know next to nothing about the police and legal structure in USA. I researched it through Wikipedia, but all in honestly I didn't make my homework good enough. I try to leave things as vague as possible, so if it's ever needed, I'd claim 'suspense of disbelief' quite easily. :)_

_**Second A/N:** M__y lovely beta-reader Progenitus accused Valerie of being a Mary Sue for this chapter(I believe you already know this too because this chapter always receive ridiculously high views than others, thanks for being curious:)) But don't let her kid you, Valerie is a Mary Sue as much as Bruce Wayne is, if you catch my drift._

_In other words, Valerie can only exist in a reality where Batman prowls in nights, as his alter ego is the world's greatest detective, and devilishly handsome, and a freaking billionaire who just can't say 'life goes on.' I know I'm stretching things into the realm of 'disbelief' but that was the first reason for me to write in Nolanverse, an universe has a pseudo-realism, close to our reality, but still something different, to explore the notions that have always intrigued me in the ways I wanted. (Hence, dragons) _

_So, for the lack of a better term, it's 'frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn.'_

_And I hope you don't, too :)_

___Enjoy! (as something finally happens! *gasp*)_

**Chapter Nine:**

* * *

She returned before the clock struck midnight (what a good girl she had become) before her carriage turned back into a pumpkin, already coming up with a plan for her next meeting with Ramirez. A prepaid phone, that was what she needed, a completely untraceable one, and that meant she had to do some snooping while Batman was out on his business.

When she walked out of the lift to the cave, Bruce was already ready, his pumpkin always turned into a carriage after midnight; his armor on, cowl hiding his face, yet there was a hint of a grimace around the harsh line of his lips. She strode off toward him, lips pulling into a wolfish smirk. "Bruce," she drawled, "don't pout, you'll get wrinkles."

Behind his cowl, he glared at her, and she had to admit it was very intimidating, but luckily she got a little better dealing with Batman. She sat at her station while he kept glaring at her, and waved a dismissive hand back. "Off you go, beat some manners into nasty boys."

With another glare he climbed on his weird bike, the cave rumbling as he drove off. She looked at the dots, put the wireless into one ear and tucked the earpiece for the radios into the other. She adjusted the frequencies scanner, the emergency lines, checked everything a second time to determine that everything was working just fine.

"All right," she said when she felt satisfied. "We're good to go. Are you tracking your informant tonight?"

"Yes," he answered, one cut syllable with a familiar rasp, and she thought again of the mix that she had taken in Wales. "We need to do something about that voice of yours, Bruce, or else you'll ruin your singing career forever. I know a mix, it's a little hideous, but I see what kind of hideous things you're able to drink—"

"Silence," he cut her off, barking the one-word-order in his raspy tone.

She made an affronted noise. "Fine," she bit off. "Don't say though I didn't warn you when they drill a hole in your trachea."

Silence...meant 'shut the hell up'. She rolled her eyes and pulled a man's photo up on the screen. In his late twenties, reddish hair dyed with streaks of bright blue, sickly pale skin, bags under the eyes, the pupils dilated; the man bore every fine trait of a classic junkie. He'd used to run small errands for the Irish before—with a little persuasion on Bruce's side—turning into a double agent for Batman.

In her ear there was the familiar flapping sound then a thud, then another familiar growl. "What did you learn?" Bruce hissed and she grimaced. She would need to learn how to hack into those security cameras to get visuals, this whole blind in the dark thing was beginning to grate her nerves.

The informant, aka Junkie Boy, whimpered. "They're still waiting for word—"Then her ear clanged with a sudden burst from the police radio, coming from all the open frequencies and distracting her attention from Bruce. "All available units please report to Puckett Square Park ASAP."

She squinted to check the map as a vast amount of green dots moved toward the north, further away from her solitary red one. Checking the names, she saw Homicide on its way too.

"Houston," she called in, "we might have a situation."

Miles away from the Palisades, Bruce narrowed his eyes but his gaze didn't avert from the man as he asked, "Meaning?"

"The majority of GCPD squads are moving to Puckett Square Park and Homicide is heading there too."

And that could mean only one thing. Trouble. "Find out what happened," he ordered, his hands already adjusting his own radio to pick up the police frequencies.

"I'm on it."

Bruce turned back, his cape floating behind him, the informant forgotten, and hopped on the Batpod. Every time he got close to learning about the shipment, something always seemed to get in the way.

Her hands flying over the keyboard, Valerie rewound the records and listened to each of them with her eyes fixed on the map. A lot of green dots were gathering up north as Bruce gained on them. Then the red dot took another route, some shortcut she guessed, as he moved out of the lines and into the dark folds of the map, bypassing the others. But inside Puckett Square Park several green dots were already waiting. Batman, officially, was late to the party. "Homicide made it."

A few minutes later, just before he arrived to the park she managed to scrape together what was happening. "All right… Here's the thing: It seems there was a call directly to Homicide, I'm still trying to find it, and someone said he'd buried someone _alive_ in Puckett Square Park for them to find. Homicide reacted as if they were on fire." She paused, "And MCU is also on the way."

Bruce climbed down from the Batpod, assessing the park's perimeter. "Send me the dots."

"Coming…" She punched the enter key, "online."

Bruce took out his PDA from his tool belt and studied the map. He was surrounded by Gotham PD. He fished out his binoculars, trying to tell the Homicide Division from the rest of the GCPD vests. Something was amiss. Homicide was almost never this fast responding to ominous calls. And killers, even the ones who buried people alive, usually didn't call the police to tell them about it. Grimacing, he dismissed the creeping concern of his first instinct.

No, _he_ was still in his padded cell, in his straight jacket. If the psychopath had escaped, he would have known by now. Even for his standards, he had taken drastic precautions against that possibility. Yet it still didn't seem like an ordinary thing. "Go a few days back in the Homicide archives," he rasped, his attention turning again to the perimeter. "See if there is anything unusual."

"I'm on it."

* * *

Saying that Burke was pissed off would be an exemplary case of understatement. He was way past pissed off. Returning from Gordon's office three days ago he had been pissed off; now he was simply worried.

Three days… Three days since that day and he still hadn't the slightest clue what to think or what to do. How exactly he was supposed to explain to the Chief about that appointment? And, why did it have to be him making the explanation anyway? Yes, he loved Bullock like he loved his own father, he would do anything, anything for him but he always assumed the commissioner loved Bullock too, since their days in Academia.

To mention that meeting, and the subsequent issues to the Chief, well… Burke was probably going to take a few hits, but the Chief wouldn't hit a friend and a commissioner… Well, maybe that wasn't entirely true either, as Burke was sure that if the Chief was provoked enough, he would even beat a police commissioner but none of that changed the facts. He loved the man like his father, and surely the Chief loved him like a son, but why did it have to be him?

Pam and Charlie entered the office while he was contemplating that fact. "You know last year snow was observed in the Arabian des—" she started and Burke grimaced.

"Oh, dear lord, not again," he grunted. She turned to him with a glare but he beat her before she could form a response. "Seriously, why should we care about Arabian deserts, I mean Arabs of all people? They wouldn't."

She opened her mouth, closed it, then opened it again. "It's—it's—" she faltered, stuttering, and giving him another glare, she pointed her finger at him. "Gotham had its driest season in forty years last summer," she hissed between clenched lips. "I'll make you remember those words when you can't find a drop of water to drink next summer."

"I heard they're gathering water from Gotham River," Charlie jumped in, confused.

"That can't be drinkable," Pam snapped dismissively.

"Arrrghhhh!" Burke yelled. "Ozone holes, Arabian deserts, and now the Gotham River. What will come next?" He paused for a beat. "I don't drink water anyway, I drink coffee." It was at that exact moment that the call came. He picked it up, swearing loudly about the ozone, Arabs, and rivers at once as he barked, "Homicide Division."

First there was static, and then a man whispering, like metal grating over metal, the raspy tone devoid of emotion. "I buried a coffin in Puckett Park." Burke grimaced at the phone. "Inside the coffin there's a father. And you have to find him because he hasn't got much time left."

Then the line terminated. He stared at the phone, his brows furrowing as he scowled, then he bellowed out like a thunder, "Motherfucker!" He turned to signal Pamela. "Send all units to Puckett." He was already on his feet, exiting the room. "And find the Chief. We have a problem."

* * *

With plants of every kind and variety, Puckett Square Park was a rampant mass of green. However, some time ago the Mayor had decided to put an end to its chaotic misery by ordering large scale renovations, an attempt to embody harmony, but nowadays that meant only one thing: a lot of labor, construction and excavation sites; hence abject chaos.

Bullock swayed on the delicate stone bridge over an artificial river; the water was a thin ribbon cutting the park in half. If Pamela had seen it she would have made a serious case about it, the homicide chief thought absently. On either side of the bridge was the excavation site, big poles propped against the bridge for support. Throughout the park were scattered wooden picnic tables—no people around, thank god for small favors, as it was getting a little too late for family gatherings, and the working hours for the laborers had already ended. The few remaining folk, mostly lovers, homeless men, young boys doing things probably not legal in all fifty states, must have already been gathered up for interviews in case the call was real.

A few yards away from the nearest picnic area, the new construction site in the park's main square, already had a commandeered dozer, an operator, and more than fifteen police officers, half of them uniformed. He immediately recognized his people from afar so the others must have been squads in the vicinity of Puckett.

Charlie was crouched down handling the earth beneath his feet when he arrived. Three uniformed cops were providing light with their cars' headlights, which were parked outside of the area where an enormous Bald Eagle monument was being built on an artificial cliff. Only the Eagle's talons were visible, the rest of it still missing. "There's a disturbance over here resembling shoveling," Burke filled him in when he joined them. The younger man turned to Fields, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. "Are you sure it's right, this place must be full of shovel marks, I mean, look at it—" he waved his hands around, making a turn, pointing at the work sites.

Bullock put a cigarette between his lips as Charlie turned his gaze to Burke. "We have to start somewhere." Bullock wished he had had a drink. "And here is as good as anywhere."

Bullock intervened as Burke started to open his mouth for a comeback; there were very good reasons indeed why Charlie Fields was nicknamed the Vulture. He signaled his 'Let's-get-started gesture' toward Charlie, one hand turning around, and the older man got it immediately; his team, thankfully, was getting much better with hand signals. "Lower the dozer down there." Fields hesitated for a second. "If it's not some sort of a sick joke there is a man here somewhere, and he could still be alive."

"Good thing they dug the park upside and down so we got a dozer pronto," Burke said absently, glancing down, his mind still trying to make sense of something like this happening. Together they walked toward the unfinished monument and jumped over several barriers circling the area. They leaned down to inspect the sculpture's talons and noticed the shovel marks and slight cupola over the earth. Upon seeing it, all the doubts about the case vanished. Agitatedly they called for the dozer. "Come on man, be quick, be quick," Burke urged the operator as Fields warned, "Don't go too deep."

Just before the dozer's shovel struck earth, a long wail of 'Stop!' sounded from behind the eagle. The operator stopped, stupefied, as the owner of the objecting voice closed on their spot. Tall and skinny, with jet black hair and a sickly pale face, from ten feet away the owner of the voice looked like Olive Oyl.

Burke's face soured. "Who are you?"

"I'm the executive assistant of the director of Gotham City State Office of Parks, Recreation, and Historic Preservation," the tall woman answered with an air of command. Burke's face reddened as the sourness gave way to anger. "Do you have the necessary permits to put a shovel down there, officer?"

The homicide officers looked at each other. The woman crossed her arms over her chest. "You can't dig here. It's a protected area."

"The hell I can't!" Burke bellowed. "We have a call."

"You can't. You have to have clearance from us or get a permit from the DA's Office. It's under our jurisdiction."

Burke took a few steps towards her. "Cut it out. I'm already having a bad day and I don't need you to make it worse."

With the raised voices a small crowd of eye-witnesses started to gather around them, looking at the detectives suspiciously.

"You can't dig here," the woman repeated stubbornly. "You'll disturb the natural habitat—"

"You haven't left an inch in this city without a hole!" Burke cut her off. "Now we'll dig a little too, what about it?"

Olive Oyl narrowed her eyes. "Show some respect," she hissed out. "I pay your bills."

The crowd muttered approvingly; there was even one who said, "With our taxes" to clarify the method of payment. Out of the blue a homeless man in misfit clothes, arms wriggling in the air, came closer behind the crowd, a black wool beret hiding his dark hair despite the summer heat.

"Arrggh!" Burke pushed the skinny woman aside and turned away. The man with the beret stood next to Bullock, fidgeting, while Bullock signaled Pamela to intervene before Burke tried to assault the state officer.

"Ma'am, please, this way, please," the college drop-out detective came forward. "We need to start working now." Putting a hand on the small of her back, she moved the skinny woman out of the way. "It's an emergency."

The man next to Bullock turned to him, smiling maniacally, and extended his hand. "Hello, I'm Salami." The homeless wriggled his arms, pointing to his beret. "This is not mine." Then, smiling maniacally, he turned and ran away.

Burke growled, "There is no sane person left in this fucking city!"

Bullock looked at the man's retreating back, then glanced at his team and started pacing. The dozer's motor started with a deafening sound, his mood bleak. This was a foul thing, he already knew.

* * *

From his vantage point, Bruce watched through his binoculars as Homicide Division's chief as he paced back and forth beside his team in the park, his cigarette in the corner of his mouth, sulking and swaying on his feet a bit drunkenly. He was a good cop, a good man, and Gordon trusted him, but Bruce recognized the self-destruction routine when he saw it. He had experienced firsthand what it was like for a child to lose parents, and he couldn't even imagine what it might be like for a parent to lose a child, not to mention the circumstances that had happened for the detective.

"Okay, I found the call," Valerie broke the silence over the line. "Here, listen to it. It's pretty—" she hesitated briefly, "_unusual_."

"_I buried a coffin in Puckett Park_," said a man's voice through the static, emotionless and metallically grating. It was something bad, something big, he knew it the moment he heard the first syllable. "_Inside the coffin there's a father. And you have to find him because he hasn't got much time left._"

He lowered his binoculars, assessing the situation as Valerie asked, "Are you thinking of going down there?" Her voice was casual but her tone suggested it wasn't a very good idea.

He grimaced. He needed to be there. He brought his binoculars up again to find a weak point, and frowned further upon seeing that it was already too late. Homicide had already found the coffin. He focused the lenses on the face of an old man in his mid-seventies, his face blue, glazed, dead eyes staring up.

He turned back. "Try to zero in on that call." He was going to have to come to the crime scene tomorrow night and get the report from Gordon. "Find its source."

When he returned, Valerie was already waiting for him beside the waterfall at the entrance of the cave. She joined him as he got down from the Batpod, taking off his cowl. "He made the call from a phone booth in Bowerly."

"Did you check the CCTVs?"

"Nothing," she shook her head. "You know how things go down there, people put up one in the morning and they break it before noon. I checked police's security cameras too, but nothing so far." Of course there was nothing. That would be too much easy. He nodded. "But I found something else, come." She hit his armored upper arm with the back of her hand, turned and walked toward the main hub. Bruce followed. "This call was made a week ago, directly to Homicide. They took it as a drunk-dial but…." she trailed off. "Listen to this." She punched a key on the keyboard and a recording played, the same grating voice, "_I buried a box in Puckett Square Park. Inside the box there's a dog, the most loyal friend, and you have to find it because it hasn't got much time left._"

She looked at him. "This wasn't a one-time thing."

* * *

The party she had been waiting for turned out to be nothing more than a boring charity event; a Bruce Wayne dinner-party-slash-fundraiser in his penthouse with lots of dreadfully dull people, tromping around in their ridiculous evening gowns, doing nothing she would consider even remotely fun.

A splash of water hit her face where she leaned along the wall beside the luxury Jacuzzi that was settled on a sort of altar in the adjacent second main hall. Irritated, she wiped her hand across her cheek and gave a glower at Bruce who pretended not to notice it. One of the girls together with him in the tub let out a screech while he splashed the water once again toward her. The girl with her blonde friend turned the gesture back. This time Valerie managed to take a step back before the water hit her, and fisted her hand. God, she was babysitting idiots, and she was already bored to death.

Giving Bruce a final look, she turned around, and with the corner of her eyes caught Bruce looking at her, momentarily dropping his act while she walked off. Amazing, he was going to make a case for it later the night.

While she walked to the high windowed walls in the main hall she saw a man's eyes (gray hair, wrinkled face, possibly in his fifties; Italian suit and shoes, Montblanc accessories; overall a decent mark) follow her figure, and this time she smiled. This occasion hadn't been useful for entertainment purposes, but at least she had been able to try a run on her theory. Just two hours and her admirers already totaled up to seven.

Though she wasn't sure whether she should feel relief or concern with that. Establishing the fact that her charms still worked was good, but it left her with the fact that the reason for Bruce's reluctance had nothing to do with her attractiveness.

And he was attracted to her a little tiny _bit_—and really, who wouldn't be—but his attraction didn't seem to leave a dent on him as he was quite successful at pretending it didn't exist. No, not even pretending. Pretending was good, she could work with pretending as it also admitted its existence in the first place. What Bruce was doing was far more annoying than that. He took no notice of it, like it wasn't worth his attention or time.

Yes, his attention and time were directed at more worthy things than she, like murderous lunatics, mob bosses, and killers. She shivered, remembering last night. It was ridiculous. They could get along pretty well while she helped him catch bad guys, but it was indeed a sad day for a seductress when it seemed that helping a man was the only acceptable offer on the plate.

The first failure had been easy to write off as bad luck, but after all these months and things they had been through together, there was no other option than to admit what was obvious. Bruce Wayne was not sexually interested in her. And that was just plain crazy.

She sniffed with contempt and wondered once again about that girl, the dead love of his life. It might prove useful to at least know what kind of girl he was into. Perhaps he wasn't into girls at all, and that poor girl had been nothing but a pretty decoy to fool the public about his closet behavior. That could surely explain not just his unwillingness to her advances but also his reluctance toward other women too. She had wasted a generous amount of time with him even before the surgery so she knew for a fact that he didn't spend some horizontal quality time with those so-called dates of his either. She didn't expect him to bring girls to the manor for obvious reasons, but his penthouse, or better yet one of those pricey hotels he had in his pocket, were perfect accommodations for a quick lay.

But no, that didn't seem right either. As a professional, she could tell those things. He couldn't be homosexual. Bisexual, perhaps, but he was too manly to be gay. And she had never seen a gay who could give a woman _that_ look he had given her the last morning.

And she couldn't believe that she had spent ten minutes pondering Bruce Wayne's sexual orientation. She sighed inwardly.

God, her life had become so fucked up that nothing seemed simple anymore. Defining a man's sexuality, no matter how eccentric he might be, shouldn't take that much time and energy. Her thoughts suddenly turned toward something that even she wasn't comfortable with. Admittedly she had done the reconnaissance, had studied her surroundings but it had been just planning ahead, more like a last resort. But she felt she was losing her balance, the control, and she needed to gain that perspective again. And that would certainly help her. It surely had helped her before.

"Nice dress," an amused, rich voice said from behind. "Nice legs too."

She could feel the smirk on his face before she saw him. Ah… finally someone interesting. And he was right; it was the most gorgeous dress she'd ever seen. Tight, elegantly cut, and barely covering her thighs (according to Bruce not looking professional at all), it cost a fortune and was worth every one of his pennies.

Turning, she smirked back. "Never disappointed me so far."

"I can imagine," he agreed with a gleeful look. He was the definition of tall, dark, and handsome. And judging by the way he carried himself very, very rich too. Behind the gleaming dark eyes, there was a spark of keen intelligence; not Einstein but certainly not Brucie Wayne either.

She picked up a faint British accent from his speech but American seemed to be his native tongue. She gave him another look, this time carefully checking him head to toe, her gaze pausing a second on his watch. She smirked again. "How was the trip?"

His eyes widened for a second, and then he shrugged. "So you know who I am."

"I have no idea at all," she said in her best dramatic voice.

He gave her a suspicious look. "Then you heard from the guests?"

She shook her head, a pose in mystery. "Then how?"

She lifted a shoulder, "It's obvious." When he gave her another look, she continued with an indifferent voice. "There is a trace of a British accent—Cockney, to be exact—in your speech. But it isn't natural, more likely adopted later because you use the American pronunciation like it's your native language. But you still haven't lost the accent so your return to Gotham has to be reasonably recent. Then there are your clothes, if I'm not horribly wrong—and by happenstance I'm regularly not—the cut of your suit belongs to a very British label which isn't really trendy here in the States." He was watching her with an expression of amazement full with suspicion. She glanced at his watch again. "And there is the matter of your watch," she said, pointing to the accessory.

"My what?"

"It's back eight hours," she stated with an exaggeratingly bored tone. "You must have returned to the city and slept all day because of jetlag and didn't have time or just plain forgot to set it right." She waved a dismissive hand. "So how was the trip?"

The dark man let out a low whistle. "That was very... _Sherlockian_."

She gave him another look.

He laughed this time. "Still, nice dress. It's good to see someone at least has a sense of fashion in Gotham," he added, waving his hand.

She made a face. "They do love dressing up, don't they?"

"They surely do. Want a drink?" he asked, looking at her empty hands. She hesitated a little before answering. Bruce had talked in very certain terms about drinking, as in 'no drinks'. Yet before they came, he already reeked of alcohol. She had countered his 'no drinks' with that, and then he had informed her briskly that he had rinsed his mouth with it and splashed it over his face, pointing out that pretending to be a drunk without smelling like alcohol wouldn't be a wise thing.

But a little drink wouldn't hurt that much, at least a few sips. "What you have got?"

"What do you want?" he countered, a wicked leer dancing over his lips.

Looking directly at his eyes, she shot back, "I believe I'll have something…hard and hot."

His eyes flamed. "Purely coincidentally, I happen to have something just for your tastes up in my penthouse. I've been told it has a terrific view too."

She tilted her chin in the air and half snorted. "Sure, it does."

He shrugged. "Not very crafty, eh?"

She shook her head. "Well, can't blame a guy for trying and I still have jetlag," he said, pointing to his watch. "So how's it going with being Wayne's bodyguard?"

She arched an eyebrow. "So you know who I am."

"Like the rest of the party," he admitted with a casual shrug. "People talk."

She shrugged back this time. "Of course." She paused a beat, as if considering how to answer his question. "Well, I think you can say I'm never bored."

He laughed. "Oh. I hear the stories." He shook his head, still laughing. "He made quite a journey from a complete loser to an idiot."

Her eyes gleamed, her voice now intrigued. "You know him from before?"

"We went to prep school together, then Princeton, I mean before he disappeared."

"Hmm," she said.

"Where did you two meet?" he asked, giving her a look, head-to-toe. "I mean, you're not the usual bodyguard type."

"Vegas," she merely said, choosing to ignore the last part. Well, he had a point, a point (which Bruce also had started to take a liking to point out) she didn't want to admit. She didn't look like an appropriate bodyguard, but yet again Brucie Wayne didn't look like an appropriate billionaire either. Who called their bodyguards as _sweetie pie?_

The playboy looked at her again in the sudden silence. "You don't give the details, do you?"

She shook her head. "I prefer to remain mysterious."

"You know, you remind me of someone I know."

"An old lover?"

He grimaced. "No. My stepsister."

"Charming?" she asked dramatically.

"A witch, more likely," he grunted. She laughed. "Sometimes I suspect she has children for dinner."

She took a step forward and countered, "Just for dinner? I have them for breakfast and dinner."

Sipping from his champagne, he laughed again. "So what were you doing before I interrupted you?" He waved a vague hand in the air. "Your—charge seems to be lost."

"He's testing his new Jacuzzi with his dates," she explained, shifting her weight from one foot to another. "And unless he manages to get himself into an immediate danger of drowning, I am—have been—conducting an experiment."

"Of what?"

"One of my abilities."

"Like what?"

"My seductress prowess," she deadpanned. "I need to find out how many advances I can get at this kind of event." She gave a little carefree shrug to his unbelieving look. "It's good to cover all your bases."

He laughed exaggeratedly. "You wouldn't have any problem in that regard, trust me."

She shrugged again. "So it seems."

His eyes flamed again. "How many?"

"Seven so far," she replied, then curled her lips. "Eight, including yours."

"That could hardly pass as one."

She gave him a look, stating openly what she thought of that remark. "So, what were you doing before interrupting my experiment?"

"Me?" he asked nonchalantly. "Just listening to the conversations. But when they started talking about Bruce's new toy—his foundation is throwing its first fundraiser next month, you know the one for the GCPD—I felt a need to get away. It became a little too philanthropic for my tastes." He looked at her again. "I had to go and find something interesting."

"So you found me," she challenged as her mind took in the last information he had given away unintentionally. So Bruce was throwing a party for Gotham's finest. That could actually prove useful…Ramirez—

He took a few steps forward, getting in her personal space then asked once again, "Are you sure there isn't any hope that I could show you that view?"

She drew in a heavy breath, while all thoughts of police and plans flew out the window, and looked straight at his eyes that were full of hot passion. "Mr. Wayne wouldn't like to see me ditching my job."

His voice was thick with desire, his eyes catching on her lips. "It doesn't look like he needs your assistance right now."

"You would never know. Last year one of his parties got raided by a psychopath," she replied, "Besides I really want to see if I can make up to ten."

"I can wait," he countered, his eyes still locked on her lips.

That did it for her. She felt her resolve shatter as she licked her lips. His eyes darkened so much they seemed like massive pools under a dark sky, mysterious, enchanting. She breathed again, thinking what this man—what was his name—could do to her in front of his ridiculous view, her against the window… She opened her mouth but before she could utter a word a very familiar voice cried out from behind, "_Viiii_—be'n lookin' for you for ever."

Breathing heavily, eyes glazed, she half turned to see Bruce as he swaggered to her side. Clothes soaked, hair dripping wet, his body swayed drunkenly on his legs, but when their eyes met, his gaze darkened with a completely sober anger. Then it disappeared as quickly as it had appeared, his eyes losing focus. Underneath a haze of lust and shock, Valerie found herself thinking she must have him teach her that particular trick. She could mimic a very passable drunk but that look was plain genius.

Bruce gave another sway on his legs. "Oh… ya foun' Tommy," he laughed as his words slurred and put a hand on _Tommy's _shoulder. "My dear'st ol' friend… how have ya b'en?"

"Sober," Tommy shot back curtly.

Valerie rolled her eyes as Bruce put an arm around her shoulder. "Any police trou'les lately?" Bruce asked, laughing very drunkenly.

He grimaced as Valerie turned a curious eye to him. "Any fire brigade troubles lately?"

Bruce took a swing forward, spinning Valerie with him, laughing. "Not yet but keep hopin'." Then he turned to her. "Val, sweetie pie, ther' is somethin' you must see."

Straightening her back, she bit out, "I think it's better if we return to the manor, Mr. Wayne."

"Pump'kin, yo're no fun," he shot her words back in her face.

Summoning all of her irritation, she sent him a glare, which made Bruce momentarily drop his act, and she saw the shadow of that anger she had seen earlier was still there. Oh well…

She took him outside the penthouse under the pitiful looks of his guests and shoved him into the elevator. As soon as the door closed, he straightened, towering above her. "You'll stay away from Thomas Elliot."

"If you call me pumpkin ever again, I swear Bruce, I kick your ass six ways from Sunday."

"He's trouble, Valerie. Stay away from him."

She crossed her arms over her chest and readied herself for a fight. "What if I don't?"

"I'm warning you. Stay away."

She raised her chin. "Or else?"

He shot her a steely look, and took a step forward. "You made a promise. We have a deal."

She narrowed her eyes, unfolding her arms. "This has _nothing_ to do with our deal."

The elevator doors opened before he could answer. He instantly dropped into his drunken act, this time without leaning on her, just swaying on his legs for people who might watch outside. She went to the driver's seat as he handed a thick fold of cash to the valet and got in the car.

She started the car and stepped on the gas, heading toward the manor. "You're not the boss of me, Bruce," she repeated her words again, her eyes focused on the road.

"No, I am not," he admitted, then continued, "Being my bodyguard was your idea—"

Turning her head to him sharply, she snapped back, "What else I was supposed to be? Your mistress?" She paused a second then flashed at him a faux smile. "If you want me to act like your lover, darling, all you have to do is say. I was being considerate."

He gave her an edgy look but only said, "I was just trying to warn you. Thomas Elliot, all of his family, is trouble. He's just returned from London. Do you know why?"

She let him steer the topic off. "I guess you're about to tell me."

"In London, he tried to open a night club. His father refused to back him up and he stole one of their family heirlooms to sell and got caught by the police. He was just bailed out."

Oh, did he? Valerie thought, laughing. "Bruce, really—" She pulled her eyes from the road for a second to give him a look. "All the more reason to spend more time with him."

"He's not like your old conquests."

She laughed humorlessly. "What do you know about my old conquests?"

"Other than that they all seem to want to kill you?" he asked sarcastically.

She gave him a deadly look and hissed between her teeth. "I'll pretend I didn't hear that so we can forget it for our mutual well-being."

He had the decency to look apologetic. "I apologize. That was uncalled for."

She nodded, not looking at him. "I can take care of myself with men," she said after a while.

"I know."

"Good. Then it's settled." She stayed silent for a while, then asked with feigned cheerfulness, "So what's the problem between you two?" She gave him a side glance. "A girl, I presume. We have a habit of making things complicated."

"It's a long story."

"Go over the bottom line then."

"In high school he made a bet with his best friend to seduce Rachel just to spite his stepsister who was hanging around with that best friend at the time, casually. That made her even crazier than usual, and then Thomas got involved personally too, and Rachel got caught in the crossfire. She almost lost her scholarship."

Ah, Rachel again. Now she understood. She gripped the wheel until her knuckles turned white. What an idiot to think he might have been jealous because of her.

She didn't respond because she didn't know what to say without profoundly insulting him. He looked at her with narrowed eyes but she stayed focused on the road. And what an idiot to ruin something that looked that promising just because he was jealous of his deceased-never-been-lover's old lover.

It was official then. She had to do something about it.

* * *

The rest of the night went by uneventfully, Valerie not distracting him through the radio. She was silent, only spoke when it was absolutely necessary, and even then they were quick and professional remarks or answers, and it was a little bit of a relief.

He had no idea how to handle her now; how to speak with her, other than requesting small information and giving simple directives. She was pissed at him, and he knew not only because he had stopped her pursuit of that—vicious man. He had forced her watch him idly for two hours while he had acted like an idiot. Had she really chosen being bodyguard for his comfort? That seemed very uncharacteristically—considerate for her. He had been thinking—dreading of this prospect while she had been away. For a while, he had even thought of settling her in a house but every time had forsaken the idea. Too risky. He hadn't set up a surveillance on her but that was too much risky, not just because he didn't trust her that far. Regardless of how she acted sometimes otherwise, Valerie was still in danger, still needed protection, and by extension, also his secret.

He walked briskly around Puckett Park, looking for clues around where the coffin had been found. The grave was newly dug, six feet down, just under the Bald Eagle's talons; the sculpture itself was still under construction by Andrea Rossellini's team. The crime scene was taped with a yellow crime scene band and the police had picked up almost everything and had trampled through everything else left behind, but still he wanted to check things out with his own eyes. He took out a tape measure from his tool belt and measured the grave, then took a sample of dirt in an evidence bag.

Valerie had thought this hadn't been a one-time thing and he had agreed wholeheartedly. There had been another call giving a fair warning ahead, and no one, including himself and Gotham PD, had noticed it.

On second thought, perhaps he would just let her have her way. He had become much too distracted. It might have been better to have her pester someone else and have her damn _steam off _when things started to spiral downwards once again. But when he had seen Thomas Elliot at her side, he had to admit he had acted like a teenager on raging hormones again. But why did it have to be him? Especially after what he had done to Rachel.

Thanks for small mercies, Alfred was returning tomorrow night. The time that had passed alone with her had been more difficult than he had expected.

He left the park, more frustrated than before. He needed to get his hands on the crime scene reports first thing tomorrow, find about the test results for that new drug with the fear toxin, and he still had to track that informant to find out about the Irish's shipment. Serial killer or not, a Gotham specialty crazy psychotic drugs or not, and an unstable (occasionally considerate) mad banshee pain in the ass to handle or not, he was still planning to put the Irish behind bars. After working over a couple opportunist criminals who felt it was a good time to start a career in Gotham, he finally decided to call it a night. One of them though had gotten a lucky, well aimed kick, so on his way back he was as much in pain as he was annoyed.

* * *

_P/S: That was Sherlock! (Don't I like lampshade-hanging. :D)_

_Be seeing you..._


	11. Chapter 10-Part I

_**A/N: **Hello again. Hope you're still fine since the last time, like what, yesterday? Yep, still in sharing mode, I am, and well, I want to finish this settlement arc as soon as possible. _

_For this chapter, I have another confession before you lot say 'you silly girl, this is not what happened in the movie.' My answer is yes, for the first scene below, I'm taking another 'little' divergence from the canon. Let's call it retcon. Truthfully I wish I could stick to canon and didn't do it but I couldn't find a way to make my way around the issue, and it was needed, hence the retconning. Frankly I fretted over it much, then in one point just said to myself: 'Self, don't be stupid. You made a freaking gender-bender, it _can't_ be worse than that.' _

**Chapter Ten-Part I:**

* * *

The next morning she informed Bruce flatly that she wasn't going to accompany him to Wayne Tower.

He seemed… relieved. Idiot.

Just because things had gotten a little _intimate_ between them he was relieved he could claim a breath of personal space. Relief and personal space could be damned. What she needed was a good source of information about something that seemed would always be a problem.

Rachel. She needed to know more about Rachel.

She went to the study and powered up Bruce's computer. She dived into the internet and started searching for Rachel Dawes. First she found out a little memoir at the DA's website in her remembrance: Graduated first from Gotham's finest and only private high school and then from Harvard Law with honors. She'd been the protégé of DA's office in her time, dating the golden boy. She had been respected, well-loved by the law abiding public, and appreciated.

She sighed. This Rachel persona seemed too good to be true. She remembered Bruce's words from last night and wondered about what could have brought to her losing her scholarship. She went to the high school's website that they'd attended and tried to find something interesting. Nothing.

Gnawing her lips, she thought about hacking into the private school's records. It wouldn't be too much of a problem, especially with the software in the cave. Nodding to herself, she went down to the cave. It turned out she was right but even though the security hadn't been a problem, it hadn't provided anything new; Rachel still seemed quite normal. She'd been on the school's scholarship and although there was a small note of her coming close to losing it in the records, the reasons hadn't been specified. Grimacing, she continued to search, trying to find anything even remotely interesting.

She hadn't. Almost an hour of searching through different databases (high school, university, several forums for entertainment purposes she'd picked up from the Facebook page that had been opened in her memory) there was absolutely nothing, nothing at all to show that she had been anything other than a lovely, idealist young woman; full of potential, well loved, and respected, who seemed to have lived a very normal looking life.

Yet she had not. She had lived deep in an ocean of secrets. Besides, no one could have been _that_ perfect. She would really like to hack into her email account or better yet, into her computer, or at least get her hands on a credit card report. But with her luck, she could be settled to have a little talk with one of her friends too.

So she went to Bruce's bedroom. Research didn't prove anything usual so having a feel of her through someone else, someone else close might shape the poor woman a little more acutely. She set her feet in the master bedroom.

Or it might not help at all. Bruce apparently thought of her as a second Madonna or something so she wasn't really hoping to find anything useful but one never knew. She then thought about the security cameras. She knew there wasn't any kind of surveillance placed on her, she had checked thoroughly before meeting with Ramirez. Of course, Bruce Wayne could be a lot more _thorough_ than her, and all in probability it could be that she hadn't _managed_ to catch anything but the fact was that he hadn't still barged into her questioning what the hell she had been doing with Ramirez was quite telling. Bruce hadn't bugged her. But if he learned of what she was about to do he would be severely displeased, at best. She paused for a second, then the next shrugged. She could easily deal with the security cameras back in the cave too.

There were different kind of things to hide. If it had been related to anything monetary or deprived secrets the search for the room would have been a little—problematic. Because, the spacious bedroom was, well, it was _huge_. It might even take a whole day to find the secret compartments, the cunning hide-ins, with lots of space to cover. But since she wasn't looking for deep secrets of his (which she already knew) and didn't care what treasures this room held secret (at least at the moment) her job was relatively easier.

Most people, fortunately unlike her, didn't hide their sentimental valuables in secret stashes in remote places but sufficed to hide them in their nightstands. So she searched there first and at the first sight found out a burned stethoscope. She looked at it closely and then remembering his late father being a doctor, she put the burned material back with careful hands.

At the left side of the drawer, just beside his photo of his family when he had been a little boy, and next to a photo of Rachel, stood a long narrow velvet box. She took her chance with it, and discovered it hid an elegant pearl necklace with two of the white beads missing from its length, giving the graceful jewelry a look of sorrow and sadness. It wasn't something she would have expected to find in his nightstand, and he really should have hid it in a safe; then her gaze drew to the family photo again and she noticed that the blond woman was wearing the same jewelry around her neck. She put it back where it belonged as carefully as she had the stethoscope.

Next to the velvet jewelry box, there was a small square black box which she opened this time with gleaming eyes and—she grimaced. Inside sat a little funny looking dark piece of rock with a folded small sheet paper on which a woman's neat handwriting declaring 'finders keepers'. She sniffed. She had no idea what to make of that but its location indicated it was something sentimentally important.

She sat on his bed and sighed. What a waste of time. Even if that rock had been from Rachel, she wasn't going to kid herself into believing it was a huge breaking through.

Pissed off, she went to Alfred's bedroom. Everyone had a secret, some big some not, but everyone had at least one. There had to be one for Rachel too. By that point she had no idea anymore what exactly she was looking for or why the hell she was looking for it in Alfred's room. She'd become settled to find any scrap of information about the dead woman and Alfred had known her as long as Bruce had.

Then she found what she was looking for, behind a nightstand, at the back of the first drawer, stuck on with a help of tape, hid in secret. Letting out a laugh, she pulled the drawer completely out and turned it around. Carefully she took the tape off and opened the envelope.

As she read the letter, her smile got wider. Certainly it was even better than a love letter.

She couldn't wait for Alfred.

* * *

Burke entered Bullock's office still feeling worried and a little bit intimated. He sat on the seat in front of the Chief's desk as the older man lifted his head from the reports he was reading—the crime lab had sent the reports the first thing that morning and it turned out that the man they had found was the father of one of the retired officers of Gotham PD's old Major Squad's Unit; Lt. Detective Christopher Sylar. The news had reached with a speed of hay fire and the Commissioner himself had just given them a visit and hadn't also neglected to warn Burke about the psychiatrist before he had gone back up to his own office.

Burke cursed mentally. Things probably couldn't get worse, he decided. Bullock's eyes drilled into his forehead, before he waved his hands to urge him to speak. The Chief talked seldom now, usually only using gestures and stares to express himself, and Burke had to admit he was getting damn good at it.

"We plan to go to the funeral, to see Detective Sylar. This might be about him, I mean, something about revenge…" Burke trailed off. "Will you come too?" he asked tentatively, flicking his gaze toward the window. The Chief hated funerals.

"The wake," he answered back simply.

Burke nodded, standing up and fidgeted. "There is something else too—" He paused and looked in the older man's eyes. Not talking, Bullock made a terse motion with his hand and then finally gathering his courage Burke spoke fast, without pausing for breath. "TheCommissionerwantsyoutosee apsychiatrist."

A stare, an unwavering stare bore once again through his head, and his superior made another gesture that could be read as 'speak again.'

Burke drew in a deep breath. "The Commissioner wants you to see a psychiatrist," he repeated normally, closing his eyes to await the expected storm to hit the shores.

* * *

"Alfred, where is Valerie?" Bruce asked the older man as he walked into the room with a silver tray in his hands.

"She went out, sir."

"Did she say where she was going?"

Alfred shook his head. "No. She said she had business downtown."

Bruce scowled and fished his phone out. "I assume she took Lamborghini?" he asked, dialing her phone. Alfred confirmed with a nod. "Where are you?"

"Good morning to you too, Bruce. I'm fine, thank you. How are _you_?" she answered sweetly.

"Where are you?" he asked again and this time it was accompanied with a faint growl.

"Seriously, how many times are we going to do this?" she asked back. "Hate to break it to you, but you're not my father too—"She faltered and he could even feel that she made a face. "That would be a little bit too much _even_ for me, I must admit."

"Where are you?" he asked the third time, his voice practically a growl.

"Downtown," she snapped. "I _told_ that Alfred," she paused for half a second then laughed and the annoyance in her tone was vanished when she continued, "Oh, he worked up a good tan, didn't he?"

"What are you doing downtown, Valerie?" he asked, ignoring her comment about Alfred which happened to be true. "Don't tell me you're out to work."

"_You_ are my work, Bruce. I'm shopping."

"At this hour?"

"It's 11.00 AM. A very good time for shopping."

"Fine, meet me at Wayne Tower."

"Will do," she said and closed the phone without further _pleasantries._

He turned to Alfred. "She's lying again."

Alfred looked skeptical. "She does that, sir."

He picked up the newspapers on the table. The new killing at Puckett Square Park had made it to the third page, pushed behind a news report regarding the Congress's new budget plan. Bruce scanned the article to discover that the circumstances of the event—the victim's name, the other call and its connection to the force were still not mentioned. Gordon was very determined to keep those little tidbits only inside a small circle and had managed to paint the murder as an ordinary felony. But a father of a retired detective wasn't promising, not at all.

He grimaced, throwing the newspaper on the table to pick up another one. "Do you think I need to put her under surveillance?" he asked, looking at the paper.

Alfred looked at him carefully. "Why don't you want to put her under surveillance, sir?"

He put the second newspaper on the table too. "We made a deal, and she's honoring it—in her ways. She came back." He thought for a second about to tell Alfred what had happened in Ireland. Then he said, "She's not my prisoner, Alfred."

The older man just nodded back.

* * *

"You won't believe what I found," Valerie barged into his office, shopping bags in one hand, the car key dangling from the other with a plushie toy which resembled a childish version of… he squinted… Batman. She shook it in his face. He stared at the stuffed toy. "Hysterical, isn't it?"

Laughing, she threw the toy at him. He caught it in the air. "Where did you find…_this?_"

"In one of toy shops in the Narrows," she answered, still laughing. "Probably they started to manufacture it for children when you were still Gotham's poster boy then _obviously_ had to throw it away."

Bruce had already forgotten the silly toy. He narrowed his eyes. "What exactly were you doing in the Narrows?"

That abruptly sobered her. "Shopping," she lied blatantly, as if she knew he knew she was lying yet still hoped that he would leave it alone.

He didn't. He merely looked at her and admitting defeat, Valerie huffed out. "Okay. I need to cover all my bases. Get my bearings around the city."

"Do you expect find yourself in a situation in the Narrows?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Not really, but I learned a long time ago it's wisest to hope for the best and plan for the worst."

Bruce gave her another look but this time it was thoughtful. That was a good mantra, the one he himself always practiced but… "I don't expect you—won't have you," he corrected quickly, "in an actual fight. You don't need to worry about that."

She walked toward his desk, leaned forward over it, and braced her hands on the daily reports of Wayne Enterprises. "And how many times has poor Alfred had to pull you out of the Narrows so far?"

He winced, visibly. She flashed a cat-smug smirk.

On their way back to the manor, she was uncharacteristically quiet again, thoughtful, gazing at the sunset out the window. "I've been thinking about what you said at the party," she remarked suddenly.

"I said lot of things that night."

"About the city," she clarified. "You are right. Gotham needs to be whole again and so does its people. And they are not."

He nodded, and wondered how or _why_ she suddenly came to this topic. "They are, in fact, desperate. Especially GCPD. I know your foundation will throw its first fundraiser for their cause in the next months. Why didn't you tell me about that, by the way?" she asked, eyeing him.

He didn't reply but she didn't press further instead went on dryly. "I saw your _fundraisers_. It won't help." Bruce glanced at her, still not speaking, still expecting her to come to some conclusions. He knew her looks; she had something on her mind. "People need to be reminded occasionally why they do what they're doing," she finally said slowly, weighing each word. "They lost their perspective, I'm afraid. They have to regain that; need to remember why they keep risking their lives each day."

"And you propose?"

"Something related to families," she replied, shrugging, "A dinner party. Something less formal or better yet, something like a picnic… the ones you bring your family along to; wife, husband, kids, dogs, etc… You know, an All-American way," she said the last part mockingly and Bruce momentarily remembered the annual Wayne Enterprises family picnics that Alfred had used to drag him to as a child. God, how much he had hated those.

Families, big, clustered groups of people; mouths that couldn't get the words out fast or loud enough, people cheering, kids screaming, smells of barbecue filling the air, smoke catching in his throat. Families, bonded with inextricable, sheltering ties of blood, sharing a body language of closeness—casual touches given and received without thought or notice—that spoke eloquently of intimate bonds. _Families…_ He'd never known how to deal with them. They had a rhythm to them he had never been able to master, which left him tense and off-balance, every defense mechanism tripped.

"A good way to remind the people of the risks, on both parties," Valerie continued after a while. "Retribution. Even the jaded ones, hard beat cops without families, some lost, some left behind; then they would feel 'yes, that's why I'm doing this… _Sacrifices_… I sacrifice myself so they can have hope. Then they might have hope too; a reason, a purpose."

Or not, he thought solemnly and gave her a look, "Since when have you been thinking of this?"

"For a while." She lifted a shoulder up. "It doesn't take a genius to see. Gotham is decaying. All of you try to do your best but it's not enough. All these renovations," she went on, waving a hand in the air, "monuments and—other stuff just serve one purpose; to make Gotham better, to show everyone Gotham _can_ get better. I didn't care at first but now… well, now it's different."

"How?"

"Before Gotham meant nothing to me. I couldn't care less if all turned to dust."

"But now?"

"Well, I happen to live here now, don't I? I can't have her rotting all around me." Her thoughtful demeanor abruptly turned to playful, and a little wink accompanied her next words. "It'd just ruin my fun."

* * *

They walked into the house of the late Mr. Sylar together, Bullock pressing his cigarette on a pot on the steps as Pamela rubbed her feet on the doormat, Burke on their six.

Pamela didn't like wakes, especially the ones that she didn't have any real reason to attend; it felt like she was intruding on someone's very special moment and she most probably was. Burke, of course, wasn't suffering from the same reserves; he went directly to buffet, and picked up a triangle sandwich before rejoining them at the far edge of the door. Far from the corner, leaning against the white pristine wall, was the coffin. It was open, its lid resting against the wall, while the late Mr. Sylar lay inside. He looked like he was sleeping peacefully. She tried hard not to think of his last minutes, how it must have felt to be buried alive, waiting for the inevitable to come, but still hoping that rescue would come_ first_ and you would get out of there, would see the sunlight once again, as all the weight of the world pressed down on you, and lost voiceless souls waited for you to cross the borders. She shuddered.

The horrors… The horrors she had witnessed.

She had joined the force to make a difference, to change history for someone, for something or else—or else she would have lost her mind but now looking back she wasn't sure about it anymore. It was impossible, impossible to stay unchanged, remain clean in the middle of all these deaths. Her hands, her hands had started to smell of dead bodies, no matter how much she washed them, how much she disinfected them the smell just didn't go away.

When the eulogy finished, another retired detective, one of detective Sylar's former partners, Eddie Normans came to their corner. He nodded to each of the men, bypassing her with just one look which she corresponded with a roll of eyes. She'd already passed caring about these discriminations. Once it would have bothered her but that had been long ago now. "I reckoned you'd be here, of course," the retired detective said, pointedly stressing the grief in his tone. "I think I saw Liam too. He was just a rookie when we were waiting for our retirement. He switched to Narcotics later. We were good friends, back in days… pity… Who could do such a thing?"

"Where is Detective Sylar?" the Chief asked flatly, cutting off the chitchat. If there was one person who liked the wakes less than her, Pamela knew, it would be surely him. She'd heard from Burke that he still hadn't even seen his daughter's grave.

"In the back garden, smoking. The old man didn't used to let people smoke here, Christopher continued the habit."

The Chief nodded as Major Liam O'Connor joined them too. "Hey, is there any news?"

The Chief remained silent. He was getting more withdrawn, closed off to his own in these days, _everyone_ noticed. "We're on it, sir," Burke answered the question in the Chief's place. "We started interrogating the witnesses. He buried a coffin in a public park," he punctuated the words with an exasperated huff, "someone must have seen it."

O'Connor nodded. "Your vulture was here before the wake," he commented.

The Chief raised an eyebrow as Burke questioned. "He was?"

"Yes, that son of a bitch took the armchairs and the sofa from the living room. Christopher forgot to mention it in the turmoil of yesterday."

"Was anything else taken?"

"No, just the armchairs and sofa…what a kind of thief does that?" the Narcotics Major thought aloud, "I wonder if they tried to paint it as a common robbery."

"They?" Pamela asked as Burke commented, "Why should they bother with armchairs and sofas? They would have just taken his valuables if that was the case. Besides since when burglars buried people alive in public parks?"

The retired detective ignored her question as he answered Burke. "Well, you are right. I think it's a gang doing. Chris had stuck pretty long sticks in some nests in his time…" He paused and looked at them with heavy eyes. "We heard there was a dog affair. Does it have anything to do with the case?"

The Chief turned his cold gaze on the old retired detective as Burke fidgeted. "We're still looking into it, Lieutenant. If there is a development, we'll let you know."

Normans patted Burke on his back. "Now, how many years have you been in the force, son?"

"Eight, sir," Burke answered flatly.

"Eight…such a child… You know you can't never really retire once you are in," Normans stated with a certainty in his tone that disturbed Pamela. "So don't think of me as really retired. _So_ don't give me that crap, kay? If there was a development, we'd already hear of it."

Burke bowed his head, "Yes, sir."

Then, Sylar, his shoulders hunched back, his eyes dimmed and reddened joined them at their corner, and addressed the Chief directly. "I heard your team is dealing with the case."

The Chief nodded curtly.

"Good," he nodded back and stared into his eyes. "Catch that motherfucker, Bullock," Not a retired detective but a victim son demanded and then continued to talk. "We are three siblings, two daughters and one son, me. I used to tell him to come to live with us after Mama died or at least check into a nursing home but he always refused, saying this—" He waved his hand around, "this is his home and was going to stay as such until he died. He had a fragile heart. I hope he had an attack down there." His face hardened, eyes darkened with hatred as he grabbed the Chief's collar. "Find that bastard, Bullock, find him and then _give_ him to me."

The Chief stayed silent, as he mostly did, yanking his collar out of the man's hands, while Burke muttered 'We will, sir.' Pamela shuddered and felt her lips trembling as she brought her hand toward them. Then she caught a smell, and she sniffed… Death, she smelled of death now.

* * *

The next morning Valerie got up early and went to find Alfred. He was already in the kitchen, preparing his ever-charge's vitamin supplement before he went to wake him up. She passed him and sat on the counter, legs swaying in the air, eyes carefully watching as he mixed the countless contents with practiced ease, and despite his age, his hands were steady. He turned to acknowledge her with a tilted head. "Good morning, miss."

She nodded, grinning. He turned back again, went back to mixing and she kept watching him the whole time with her grin plastered on her face. When he finished, he turned to her again. "It appears there is something you need to tell me."

She sighed dramatically then smiled again and hopped off the counter. She clapped her hands as her smile grew wider. "As a matter of fact, yes. Yes, I do." She paused a second for the effect then declared calmly. "I found Rachel's letter." Alfred gave her a baffled look. "In which she dumps him," she supplied him helpfully.

In return Alfred gave her a raised eyebrow. She waved her hand. "Yes, yes, yes… I searched your room. By the way, the back of the drawer, ugh," she punctuated with a low hum from her throat, "was the first place I checked. The next time try somewhere less obvious. Like—"She pursed her lips down, pondering. Manor's flushes were the latest models, caved into the wall so there were no hiding things in waterproof packages... "—inside the towel handles in the bathroom. If you can get them open without scratching them, they've proven to be quite efficient hiding places."

Alfred, much like Bruce did all the time, ignored her kind suggestion. "What do you think to do with this information, miss?"

She let out a real sigh this time, hopping up on the counter again. "I still haven't decided, to tell the truth." She eyed him and questioned, "Why didn't you give it to him? Why do you keep it secret?"

"Isn't it obvious?" the older man answered evenly. "Sometimes the truth can't be enough."

"So we lie," she agreed. "You want him to still have hope, but it keeps him back too. Sooner or later, he's gonna have to move on."

"And you'd like him to move on toward someone specific?" he asked, eyes searching.

Taking his hint, she grimaced. "I guarantee you my advances on him are purely _unromantic_."

"So you won't be particularly disappointed if he still dwells on that past for a little while."

"I don't know, Alfred. As unromantic as my advances are, I was really hoping to scratch that itch _particularly_ with him," she said, blunt as ever.

"Then let me assure you that his reasons for refusing your… advances are not because of Ms. Dawes. Master Wayne doesn't pursue relationships of a casual nature," Alfred stated with finality. "At this point I might also need to point out how he might have felt if you had told him, when the information would also reveal how exactly you found it." He looked directly at her eyes. "Are you really sure it's a wise decision, Ms. Valerie?"

He had a good point, of course. If Bruce had learned she had been snooping around, around their bedrooms to be specific… She shrugged mentally. She wasn't really planning to tell Bruce as she hadn't really expected to find something like this. What she had looked for was evidence that Rachel, despite what Bruce thought of her, had been like the rest of humankind and she had found that. She could work with that.

She nodded briskly, her face pulled into a soft grimace. "I see."

Alfred nodded too and then smiled friendly. "Glad we could reach an agreement, Ms. Valerie."

Damn, she thought. He was really good.

* * *

_A/N: If it's gonna help, you can think that Valerie found a copy of the letter Alfred 'canonly' burned. I'd have gone with that too _if_ I could manage to find a reason to explain why the hell Alfred would have made a copy of the letter? If you can, be my guest :)_

_The horrors...the horrors, is an alteration of the last words of the Colonel Kurtz, from **Apocalypse Now** and **Heart of Darkness**, which both also are one of my inspirations for this story. The original line is 'The horror! The horror!'_


	12. Chapter 10-Part II

_A/N: Hullo! I probably need to say something here, but not in the mood right now, so I'll just say this._

_This chapter is for all those who need to be in the center of the circle to keep themselves stable; to those who aren't haunted by the memories of war but miss it. _

_(Hah,** Progenitus**, darling, I beat you to it, but you can still use 'Nothing happens to me' :p)_

**Chapter Ten - Part II**

* * *

Feeling disheartened, Bruce punched the keys of the keyboard furiously. Nothing was working properly anymore. Days of searching, gathering information, and he still knew nothing about the upcoming shipment other than its ghostly existence. Until now his informant's intel had been trustworthy, but now Bruce was forced to think that his association with Batman might have come to light. Pulling up another file on the screen, he added putting the old dealer under surveillance to his mental list.

He stifled a yawn. His already battered body was trying to keep up with his hectic double life and nighttime activities, but he wasn't a machine and sooner or later he was going to need to rest. He let himself heave an exhausted sigh. What Valerie had said had disturbed him even more. In some ways she was right. Despite the changes he'd instigated in Gotham, there was still much to be done and so little time, and people had already started to lose their perspective.

Yes, she was right. People needed to be reminded why they did what they did. Not because of a habit developed over the years, but because of a purpose united by a common goal. He, despite everything that had happened, never forgot that goal. He still knew why he did what he did. Even now he couldn't say if it was an urge, an obsession, or a coolly rational decision to right the wrongs in his city, but it didn't matter, because it had nothing to do with picnics and it surely wasn't something he needed to be reminded about. But times like these even he couldn't help but ask what had really changed.

Crime and corruption of humanity were as old as time itself, rotting happily ever after with the twin siblings of money and power, greedy people trying to catch them in their greedy hands. Yet at least they were not burying people alive for a game.

His mind drifted from his current assignment as he thought about the baleful event. The autopsy report had reached him this morning via Gordon. The victim had been knocked out with diethyl ether and died of a heart attack while awaiting the inevitable, six feet under. He sensed another headache pounding around his cranium, remembering the old man's face when they pulled him out of the coffin he had been buried in.

There had been a robbery in the victim's house that day and the police had already started to interview eyewitness. A white pick-up from a moving company had been seen in front of the building before the murder, and no one had given it a second thought as the victim had moved out together with his furniture. The name of the moving company had turned to a bogus as the plate number, and the witnesses couldn't remember anything specific as CCTV's came out once again clean. The lack of security coverage was disturbing him as it indicated that the murderer had an understanding for technological equipment or at least had a helping hand for that end. The voice sample from the recordings was still on test, and he had asked for a sample of the coffin from Gordon to investigate further, and for now there was nothing more he could do.

Focusing his attention back where it belonged, his gaze caught again on the man on the screen, and he grimaced. If he only could crack him… Stoutly he pulled up another file, and pushed the weariness to the back off his mind for he could entertain himself with self-doubts, reservations, and distractions but _Batman_ could not.

Alexander Ivanokovic. Russian father, Irish mother, the man seemed to live his life _on_ the line, not truly ever belonging to any side—he heard the door cracking open, soft, light footsteps following, and a faint munching over everything.

"Charming fellow," Valerie announced through a mouth full of food.

He remained silent. She dropped herself into the seat next to him and propped her feet on the armrest of his chair. She twirled something in her hand, inspecting it. He saw it was one of the chocolate truffles from Alfred's holiday purchases. "So what about him?"

"He's the money launderer for the Irish and I believe the book-keeper—" He paused and gave her a look as she continued her examination of the sweet. "Yes, they're what you're thinking they are."

She let out a loud laugh, "Really?"

He gave her a stony look. She laughed again. "I can't believe Alfred bought _these_." She took off the little chocolate on the top of Nipples of Venus with one hard bite. He rolled his eyes. She threw the rest of it into her mouth wholly. "So wh-'at's prub-lem?"

"He's a half-Irish half-Russian living in Puerto Rico."

"Curi-ous hyb-rid," she gulped down. "I wouldn't guess country borders would stop you."

"They don't," he agreed. "He's the key to solve the Irish—problem and I need to know more about him." He locked his eyes on the photograph on the screen. "The last time I was in this position I drew LSI Holdings to Wayne Enterprises to look at their books—"

"That's why you tried to merge with LSI? I was wondering," she exclaimed cutting him off, and slapped her hands on his forearm playfully. "Hah ha! Another common point we've discovered, darling."

He stared at her then decided to ignore her little interruption. "—but Ivanokovic's company refused to even consider my bid."

She took the photos of his residence in her hand, her eyes scanning them quickly. "There should be other ways." She squinted. "And he seems to have built himself a—Fort Knox in Puerto Rico. He's probably hiding something there."

He nodded. That had been his first thought as well but even if Batman could afford to be seen in Puerto Rico, infiltrating Ivankovic's residence to gather intel might be more trouble than it was worth. Gotham was his ground, and he was safe—relatively—to do whatever he pleased in her streets, but crossing into enemy territory was another matter. It required careful planning, good surveillance, and he needed a solid objective before he got into something he wasn't sure would pay off. Besides there was always FBI concerns. Gordon had managed to keep them off for the time being, but if Batman was sighted out of Gotham, there would be no way to keep FBI away from him.

"I used to know a pro that used to always tell me that the best way to enter a place is through its front door," Valerie then said.

He shifted his attention to her and gave her a rare half a smile. "I used to know someone who used to say the exact same thing to me."

Her eyes widened comically, "No kidding."

He raised his eyebrow. "What do you think I was doing all those years when I was— away?"

"Smoking joints with terrorists?" she offered innocently.

He let out a faint chuckle. "Oh… I see. You're making fun of me," she said, pouting, poking an accusing finger into his chest.

"No." His face sobered. "I don't assume he is the type to socialize with Bruce Wayne and I also don't assume he's throwing parties in his—castle." He looked at the man on the screen again. "I don't see how I can get myself invited."

"Bruce, you're missing one thing."

"Which is?"

"Me."

His attention snapped back to her, his lips pulled into a grimace, his jaw clenched. "No."

She leaned forward on her seat. "Your—concern is appreciated but you want to know his dirty secrets?" She paused to give him time to ponder about it. "I'm your best option. Bruce Wayne can't get in but _I_ can take my chances."

He didn't speak, and instead turned to look at the wall in front of him. "Our bargain," she prompted further, "my skills and silence for your protection and money. You kept your end, and I want to keep mine too."

His attention turned to her again, she leaned even further. "So let me show you a fine example of those _skills_. This might come as a shock but I really want to help." She caught his gaze, her eyes gleaming eagerly, and she looked—sincere. She pointed to the man at the screen and smiled. "That man can't beat your brain, my charm, and Fox's gadgets."

He gave her another look. Whether her diagnosis was true or not, Valerie was one of those people who needed to be in the center of things. Not for just attention seeking too. He had seen the life she had had prior to their meeting, and even three days had been enough. She somehow always managed to bring herself in the middle of the action, perhaps even unconsciously. That was what she needed, and Bruce knew it because he could understand. The fact was that, he would just let her out to _play_ a bit, or else, sooner or later he was going to watch her leave.

Problem with that was action usually also meant trouble with her. Slowly, hoping he wouldn't regret it, Bruce nodded. "You'll follow my word, no improvising."

She rolled her eyes. "Whatever."

* * *

She scanned through the pages, sitting in front of the computer in the study; her plan sorting itself out slowly in her mind. Alexander Ivanokovic seemed to not bother with suffering through romantic entanglements, instead he preferred the company of escorts and high-end prostitutes. Throughout his background, she hadn't seen a single date, let alone any trace of a girlfriend. He was a very secretive, closed off individual who protected his privacy obsessively.

Cracking all his defenses by one by, tearing down every brick would be a good challenge; she thought wistfully, if she had the time. But Bruce would never let her spend so much time just to infiltrate his living space. So that meant some out of the box thinking was in order.

Truthfully, it wasn't so out-of-box, in fact, as she mulled it over her mind, it seemed quite ordinary. She cast another glance at the list of escorts, the agency he was using. At that moment, just as her plan was defined, Bruce walked into the study.

He sat next to her, and waited.

"I was able to determine a few things," she declared. "First, I can't seduce him." Her gaze flicked toward him, and—he was looking at her funny. If it'd been anyone else she would have even said it was with an expression of open-mouthed awe but Bruce Wayne was not anyone else, so his mouth was tightly closed, his slightly widened eyes the only indicator of surprise. "Within the time restrictions," she corrected herself. "Seduction is an art; one that requires time, for some, more than the rest. But luckily we don't need it because I found out how to get into his company."

He arched an eyebrow. She smirked and pulled up the website she'd minimized earlier. On the screen, the beautiful, porcelain doll girls smiled at them seductively. "He may not be in the dating business but he definitely enjoys the company of escorts."

His attention averted from the website to her. "From what I've gathered he has a specific preference, but you already know I can easily shape myself into whatever he seems to enjoy." He grimaced, opened his mouth to speak but she beat him to it. "But since our goal here is not getting into his pants, but rather into his—_bed_—" the corner of her lips curled down, "—room, I'm thinking of drugging him with Rohypnol before he gets out of control."

"That's your plan?" he asked after a pause of incredulity.

"Well, it still needs some fine tuning," she pointed a finger at him, "but don't you worry, I cleared my whole schedule for studying tonight. First we need to hack into one of the agencies he uses and get me a website and such." She paused then said helpfully, "I'll leave the security concerns to your capable hands."

"What if you can't drug him?" Bruce pointed out.

"That's yet to be a problem for me; my charming self is intoxicating as it is!" she remarked cheerfully and let out a mock laugh, wrinkling her nose. "Honestly all you have to do is get him to drink as much as you can, then drug him into oblivion, and get him naked. _Then_ you rumple the room, turn the sheets inside out, throw the blankets and cushions on the floor, scatter his clothes all around, break a few things, then for good measure leave a kiss on the mirror and write 'thank you' below." She waved her hands. "And there you are. When he wakes up the next morning, he won't remember anything specific but all the evidence will suggest that last night he had the best lay in his life."

His face was… unreadable. She'd expected something from him after such a tirade, but it was likelier to get a reaction from a stone than out of him. Suddenly he leaned forward and grabbed her shoulders. He turned her fully and looked straight into her eyes. "This is _not_ a game. I want you to promise me that you'll be careful."

"I'm always careful."

"You are impulsive," he countered.

She huffed, rolling her eyes. "I'll try my best."

He let his hands drop, and nodded. "I was already searching for his residence's blueprints. We'll need to hack into the security cameras and bypass them. We shouldn't leave any trace of you behind."

She nodded back. "We need to work on an emergency plan too, just in case."

"I'll get on it."

* * *

Burke's bellowing of, "I'll be damned!" pulled Pamela's attention from her research on the coffin they'd found. Like the rest of the department, her eyes drifted toward the massive man who was reading the last autopsy report for the dog they'd discovered buried in Puckett Park.

The Chief fixed him a warning glare, and Burke answered by raising the report. "Chief, the dog we found, guess who it belonged to?" He paused for effect then went on, "One of retired K9 officers of the old Major Squad. Retired around the times as Sylar, they'd been partnered up for a while too. He was found buried in a box of detergent packages."

The Chief snapped his finger before his voice rang around their office. "Everyone, I want to know every man, woman, and child Sylar put behind the bars, each and every one of them." He waited a beat for the rest to scurry to their new task and then turned to her, "Found anything?"

She shook her head. "Keep looking for the coffin maker." He looked back to Burke. "You and Charlie will continue to look out for that white pickup, the rest will do the research. And Pamela, search for that box too, we need to know where it was purchased."

"Yes, sir," Pamela answered at the same time as Burke.

* * *

Valerie stood in the middle of the mostly empty warehouse, with its peeled paint adorned by graffiti, and metal barrels scattered along the interior. A long metal counter sat upon a few rickety legs, and in front of it, there were several tall bar stools, each old, battered, and worn out.

The place had held a rave party in some near past; the evidence was left behind in scattered piles of waste; empty bottles, glasses, broken florescent lights, and lots of condoms packages. A perfect place for a photo shoot that she desired it to be perfect.

She took a few bottles and arranged them on the makeshift bar's top. Bruce had refused the idea at first, but after some nudging from her side, explaining that she couldn't be a pro without a professional website and professional photos he had acceded. So he had found her this.

Far across the dance floor, he'd already set up two lighting panels, one ventilator, and a makeshift vanity for her to get prepared. She smiled. Everything he did, the guy always took it seriously.

She went to the mirror to check her appearance. It was about sex, just sex, so there was no need to look anything more than desperately suffering from lack of a good lay; no need for dramatics, for mysteries, for hinting something just underneath. All the information about Ivanokovic pointed out that the exact thing; the man didn't care about anything besides the physical, straight up, and she couldn't say how glad she was for it. Seducing someone by just being sexy was the easiest job in the world.

Ivankovic was into redheads so a wig in soft red shades covered her own hair, rebellious bangs over her forehead, and green contacts darkened her eyes. She had tried to shape her face as a lovely heart with contouring and lighting effects and it didn't look too shabby. She wore a short dress that bared deep cleavage, almost transparent with dark beige tones. She took her shoes off and stood barefoot, a simple bangle decorating her left ankle while she waited for Bruce.

She didn't have to wait long. A couple of minutes later, he strode into the warehouse with a Canon camera hanging around his neck. He looked at her, from head to toe, taking everything in with quick precision. He didn't comment of course.

_Typical._

"Are you ready?"

"Always," she shot back and grimaced. "We need music for this."

He pointed behind her. She turned around and looked closely under the vanity where there was a small rechargeable iPod station. Taking everything seriously, indeed. Laughing she went toward it. "Watch your steps," Bruce called as she zigzagged on her toes around the broken bottles and garbage.

She played with the iPod as he turned on the lighting panels and ventilator in the middle, then slurred, languorous rhythms filled the space, and she nodded approvingly and walked back to the spot she had arranged before. She propped herself along a barrel, bent forward and cocked her hips. Her gaze caught on a green olive on a long stick in a glass. She picked it up, brought it to her half open lips, and tossed her head at an angle as she called Bruce. "Come on, let's start."

Bruce turned back, lifted his head, then halted, his gaze stuck on her, and this time he was definitely gaping. _Finally_. She lowered the stick and straightened. Giving him a look, she reached for the remote control and muted the music. "As flexible as I am, I can't stay like this all day."

She turned on the volume and posed again, raising the stick to her lips and tilting her head to give the lens her best sultry look. His gaping lasted only for a second before his camera came up, his face closed, his expression dismissive as ever.

The flash snapped continuously as she moved with the music, doing all the necessary bits; biting lips, running the tip of the tongue over the teeth, and Bruce took photos meticulously, his hands never hesitating. Then she decided to raise the game.

She dropped to the filthy floor, back arched, head tilted sideways and lips parted, her expression lost in the agony of bliss as she closed her eyes… the best orgasm stance. Her heart beating fast, she heard the music dimly, her closed eyes barely registered the machine's flashes, as she twisted aside, her nails biting into her palms.

Then the music faded, the flashes ceased; she opened her eyes to look at Bruce. He looked collected. His expression was composed, yet when he talked his voice was rough. "I think that's enough."

She slid towards him. "But we've just started," she said softly with the best innocent look she could manage. "We need to have Mr. Ivankovic thoroughly smitten."

Bruce gave her a rare shy smile. "I think you've accomplished that."

Content with his subtle admission, she grinned. "If you say so…" She rose to her feet smoothly, shaking the fake hair to get rid of the dirt and dusting her legs and arms off. "Let's finish packing up. I want to see these first thing."

* * *

Bruce wasn't a fool, he knew it would take exactly one look and Ivanokovic wouldn't even understand what hit him, much like the rest of the long list of unfortunate men who happened to fall into her force of gravity; like Ronnie the Local Mob Boss's son, like Thomas Elliot, like Bruce Wayne, himself. He cast a glance at Fox in the basement of Applied Sciences, pulling up the website they had prepared for Marilyn Sinclair. In a non-typical male reaction for shots of such a nature, the older man's eyebrows furrowed as he looked at the sepia toned photos on the screen.

Fox turned to him. "I guess you expect me to ask if you know what you're doing, Mr. Wayne?" he asked, an edge to his dry voice.

He grimaced.

"Be careful," Fox warned in a tone that Bruce would have liked to use on Valerie.

"I always am."

Fox nodded and turned his attention to the screen. "The website is ready, all you need to do is upload this program into your computer—"He pointed to a small flash drive on the table, "and run through it. I'm sure a smart man like you can figure it out." He paused unexpectedly, a half of mischievous smile directed at Bruce. "You did go to Princeton, Mr. Wayne?"

"Dropped out, actually," Bruce responded with a glint in his eyes.

Fox gave him another small smile. "This is an infiltration program. It will hack into the agency's server and upload her profile and homepage onto their database. So when they do a background check it will appear that she's been with the agency for a couple of years, only in a different European branch."

Bruce nodded, tucking the flash drive into his pocket, and asked about the most problematic hurdle left. "Security cameras?" When he was Batman, he never had to worry about security cameras and now he could see what a pain in the ass they could be while going undercover and trying to keep that cover intact.

Fox nodded and went to a cabinet. From its shelves, he took a pair of small circular black devices. "This is a closed-circuit-wrecker. You will have to place one of the pair on the main camera hub before she goes inside, and the other will have to be attached to your computer after she is in. As soon as you attach it, it'll redirect the feed to you." He pointed to a small opening in the side of the device. "This slot is for a memory card. I'm going to save a one hour digital video from his own database of him with another woman and alter the time code to show it's actually a new recording. But that's all you have, only an hour, so I recommend she keep her hands fast and finish her business before the system runs out of feed."

Bruce sighed. The security was giving him headache. For a moment, he wished he could just kidnap Ivanokovic and drop him with Gordon like he had done with Lau. But aside FBI concerns, that wouldn't fix anything since the DA wasn't in the habit of accepting anything associated with him these days. He wanted to sigh again but he couldn't justify sighing wearily twice within a minute. He settled with grunting. "Can you hack into their archive to alter the image?" he asked, ignoring the fact that he was essentially asking the older man to prepare a fake sex tape for Valerie.

Fox seemed to choose to ignore that part as well. "Fortunately their databases are housed in the security company holding servers, so yes, in a few hours I will be in."

"This hub you were talking about is also in their building?" Bruce asked.

"Believe me, it's much better than having it in Ivanokovic's fortress," Fox said with a smile. "I assume you can get yourself in there with relative ease."

Bruce nodded. "What about the other cameras? Her face will be on them."

Fox nodded, one step ahead. "The device has an erasing program, when the video feed has finished and the real images come back, the device will send its twin a virus to erase the last two hours from the database and replace it with a static image loop. It needs to be directed manually so you will have to send the command yourself."

He nodded again. Fox looked at him. "Blueprints, Mr. Wayne? We can get them from the security company."

He shook his head. "Already have them," a small smile appeared on his lips, "Princeton, remember?"

Fox nodded back with a small smile as well, and waved his hand. "There is something else I believe you'd like to see."

He went to his table again and pulled out a drawer. "Since she's on a time restriction, I believe she'll need one of these decoders. It's a password decoder, if she happens to come across a vault it might help her."

He shook his head. "She'll be searched before she's allowed in his presence and will still have to carry a flash drive for the laptop, a tracking device, a microphone and the drugs. We can't prepare her for everything," Bruce said, unable to keep the creeping frustration from his voice. This was madness, plain madness, he should never have agreed.

Fox looked at him tactfully. "She's the most _resourceful_ woman I've ever known, Mr. Wayne. She'll be fine." He paused. "How can you be sure the laptop will be in his bedroom?"

Bruce shrugged. "I saw him carrying it along where ever he goes. It'll be his bedroom." He paused for a second then asked tentatively, "The sonar technology… Could it be developed for subterranean observation?"

Fox gave him a hard look. "Why? Planning on spying ants, now?"

Bruce didn't counter his disapproval. "Someone was buried alive, a retired detective's father, in Puckett Square Park. The Commissioner has kept the press away but we have reason to believe this wasn't the last time."

"You mean we might have a serial killer who buries people alive?"

Bruce nodded gravely. "Jesus…" Fox exclaimed softly before continuing, "I'll see what I can do, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce nodded. "Okay, thanks again, Lucius." He turned to leave. "I think I'll see how _Marilyn_ is faring."

He found her in his office, playing through his tablet, slumped back on his seat, legs propped up on his desk. He waved the back of his hand at her. "Off."

Huffing, she stood up and gave his seat back to him. He powered up his desktop, plugged another flash drive in, and her website, designed in sepia tones, as if everything this girl offered you would be wild and savage with a profound absence of colors, leapt onto screen.

"Hello gorgeous," Valerie cooed, waving at herself flirtatiously as she bent down to look. She nodded with a satisfied smile. "I look totally doable_._"

Bruce gave her a stern look, which she shook off with an easy shrug. "What? That's what I was going for."

Forget being in the center, screw the need for the action. This was a trouble, a trouble idea. He should never have said yes. Feeling more irritated, he bit off, "Valerie, this isn't—"

"—a game," Valerie cut him off. "I'm well aware of that fact, Bruce." She nudged his foot with the tip of hers. "Stop worrying."

She was sociopathic and it'd be rather good if he remembered that, all the time. Looking solemn, he nodded.

"We are going tomorrow night?"

"Yes."

"Did you arrange the transportation details?"

"Yes," he said, minimizing her website. He didn't really want to see how doable she looked in her photos, taken by his own hands to send her to seduce a man. He pulled up his Outlook. "Bruce Wayne goes to party, and Marilyn follows him. We'll cross into Puerto Rico from there."

"You got an ID?" she asked, arching her eyebrow.

He nodded. "I hoaxed one for Marilyn Sinclair for passing the borders. We'll be still on US soil, the controls wouldn't be too tight. And you need to decide on a surname now for yourself."

She nodded back. "I will. Security?"

"Valerie," he said, voice raising an octave, as he lifted his head to look at her. He had _no_ desire to talk about her fake sex tape. "I'm trying to work here."

"Fine," she bit off, hopped down, and stormed out of the room.

He let out an irritated grunt, and tried to concentrate on his emails.

* * *

_A/N: Okay, hands up, who thinks Bruce Wayne is OOC? *self-aware author raises her hand too* I know, I know, he is rather OOC (in fact during the story there are passages Bruce(and Alfred too) is more than a little OOC but alas, they are all needed to uh, rattle the cages. :) If you have opinions for this, I'd be glad to hear it._

_And another thanks go to **GSR** for her polishing of the techno-babble and photo shoot scene._

_Cheers!_


	13. Chapter 11

_A/N: Here the last chapter of the second arc, that I call as 'settlement arc'. Wanted to post this too, because as I said I wanted to be done with these parts of the story as soon as possible. And the last chapter and this one are connected to each other. So here we are..._

___Some of you might have seen from my profile that I described my 'art' as 'egocentric soft-porn'. Now, after reading this, why it's like that might be clearer for you. :)_

___Enjoy._

**Chapter Eleven:**

* * *

In her late twenties, Betty was an attractive woman, seductively charming, and drop-dead sexy. Flaming red hair fell in loose waves across her back, smooth pale skin like porcelain covered her slender figure, the expression on her face promising splendid sex. Yes, she could easily see why the redhead was his type, the only woman of Ivanokovics' that could be considered as somewhat of a regular.

It was a pity that she would have to skip tonight's appointment.

The girl was living in a luxury apartment (for Puerto Rico's unmind blowing standards) with an ocean view; one bedroom, a small but cozy living room, bathroom and separate kitchen. And even in her unconscious state Betty was still graceful, long silky hair floating as Bruce eased her over on her bed. It had taken under one minute, merely forty eight seconds for Bruce had a charming smile, and he could be a _very_ good liar when he wanted. He'd said he was her new neighbor in 18B, and he'd forgotten to take his keys that morning and could she please open the front door for him?

The door, of course, was opened and the girl also opened hers to greet the charming neighbor properly, asking with a smile if he needed anything else. No, he didn't but on second thought, he actually wouldn't mind a cup of coffee.

And Valerie gagged just a little just one floor below.

Bruce sprayed the redhead, not even waiting to cross the threshold fully, picking her up and Valerie jumped up the steps hastily, two at a time, and followed him inside, closing the door securely behind her.

Returning to the redhead's tiny living room, she sat the laptop on the coffee table. She plugged Fox's flash drive, set up the program and waited for a full minute before it gave out a ding informing them that hacking into the agency's website was complete.

She opened a browser, typing the website's address and searched for Marilyn Sinclair, and there she was looking like sensuality had come alive. Everything was in order. Breaking into the security company's hub to place his device, Bruce had already set up his own security measures, and now he was going over the emergency plan, hunched over the blueprints where he sat on Betty's couch, looking solemn more than ever.

She'd been prepared too; the woman on the glass surface of coffee table was Marilyn Sinclair, not Valerie—still without a surname, complete with the reddish wig, green contacts, in another dark beige dress with a deep cleavage. There was a fancy jade ring on her forefinger that hid a dose of Rohypnol, one shoe held a tracking device inside the sole, the other held a flash drive for the laptop; Bruce's special gifts for her.

Bruce looked at her. "Ready?"

"Ever."

Pulling his phone out, he called Alfred. "Alfred, we're good to go. Direct the calls."

She fished out the phone that Fox had procured particularly to make this call, and dialed the number of Ivanokovic's secretary.

"Marlowe," A man's brisk voice answered evenly.

"Mr. Marlowe, hi, this is Stephanie calling from the agency." She introduced herself, raising her voice into a pitch perfect for a secretary of that kind establishment. "I'm sorry to bother you, but I'm afraid we'll have to reschedule Mr. Ivanokovic's appointment with Betty for another time. There was an emergency and Betty had to leave the city for a couple days, um," She paused, "Um, family matters. But we'd be happy to find another girl if he wishes. In fact, we have a new girl, well—not exactly _new, _not into the business but new in Puerto Rico—that's something we believe just like his tastes—so, if—"

He cut her off, speaking to someone in the background. "There was a family matter with Betty, sir. They want to send you a new girl—" There was a pause over the line before he said, "Send us her photo."

"We uploaded her photos to our website; I'm sending you the link now."

There was another silence... "Okay, send her at nine; we'll do the background check." Then he hung up.

She gave Bruce a satisfied smirk. "They've got it."

* * *

She held her head high, ignoring the two Muscles that sent her glances, and waited for Bruce's command.

The one worded simple directive, 'in', sounded from the hidden wireless deep inside her left ear, which had been developed by Wayne Tech specifically for stealth. She had already suffered two search parties before being deemed harmless to enter the compound so she was particularly glad that Bruce's security precautions were border-lining almost paranoia. Not wasting time, she sauntered into the room with an artificial arrogance and class that could be only associated with a high-end prostitute.

Her _client_ didn't greet her or even lift his head to look at her. Instead he waved his arm offhandedly to the couch. Slightly annoyed by the dismissive gesture, she sat on the couch, her eyes closely watching his hands as he furiously typed on his laptop.

So Bruce was right about that part, she faintly smiled. Nice. Sensing her keen interest, Ivanokovic asked, without averting his eyes from the screen, "Do you mind?"

"Well, you paid for whole night, and it's your money you're wasting. So—" Shrugging, she trailed off. Bruce hissed out. _"Valerie, don't provoke him."_

But that finally made the money launderer look at her, up and down, head to toe, while she was rested on the couch quite suggestively. "Come here," he ordered.

She stood up, her eyes sparkling with a glint, and walked to him. His arm rose to stop her just before his knees. "You're new?"

She tilted her head, and looked disappointingly at him. "What do you think, _really_?"

He smirked. "I liked you."

"I'm a very likeable person," she agreed, and Bruce warned, _"Don't waste time."_

She turned around to look for the buffet and found it at far across the room. "You look tense, allow me prepare you a drink, a special mix, one I came up with personally." She strode to the buffet, and started to pour the drinks into shaker, then added the drug inside the ring on her forefinger. She turned back to him, shaking the mixer, and locked her eyes on his. "I named it after myself; Sinclair's Blaze."

And she watched Ivakonovic's eyes getting blazed. She bowed her head a little, still not breaking the eye contact, and poured the mix into a round glass. She walked back to him, and offered the glass. He raised his arm but instead of taking it he caught her at the elbow and pulled her down against his chest, and seemingly still not satisfied, settled her against his crotch. Without a word, he turned her aside and placed her leg other side of his hip, ending her up in way that she straddled him. She cursed mentally during the curt movements but still managed to hold onto the drink.

Bruce inhaled sharply as Ivanokovic took the glass out of her clutch and set it on his desk. With a hand pressing on her chest, he pushed her back until her shoulders hit the desk, and she rested herself against its edge in an unnatural arch, trembling slightly as her muscles got into the position.

Smirking down at her, Ivanokovic asked, "Comfortable?"

"Very," she bit out challengingly as Bruce drew in another sharp breath. She wanted to scream at him to stop doing that. She watched as the money launderer's hands flew over her, wondering what the blasted man was going to do. She didn't need to wonder long though; his hands fisted at the ridge of her neckline, and opening his arms he tore the thin fabric in one smooth motion to her navel.

Bruce hissed out a _'Valerie'_ as Ivanokovic's gaze darkened even more, _drinking_ seemingly not his priority for tonight's entertainment, and if she wasn't deeply pissed off at him for ruining her plans she would have been impressed with his directness.

But she wasn't, and this was spiraling downward. _"I'm coming,"_ Bruce growled in a heated voice, almost—in panic. She moved her eyes toward the camera which she had studied earlier on the blueprints. She shook her head slightly in pose of tossing her head back, and let the silence of her gaze speak for her.

Control, she needed to gather the control back, and the best defense was a good offence. She grinded on his lap which had the man hissing between his teeth, while her hands flew backward to find the glass, her savior, and she grabbed it before pouring it down over her body. She shivered visibly as the coldness hit her and he watched the liquid running down over her neck, between her breasts, through her bellybutton, goose bumps rose on her skin wherever it touched. Ivanakovic's eyes darkened with desire.

He leaned forward, the tip of his tongue touching the beverage filling her navel slightly, and he flipped his tongue in and around with expert touches, and her body reacted accordingly, even though she didn't want to. She trembled, but when he put his mouth over it entirely, swallowing the little amount of drink down his throat, she closed her eyes, feeling victorious. He lifted his head slightly over her stomach, and smirking, she poured the rest of drink over herself and watched the liquid run over her skin and fill his mouth. He swallowed again.

_Yes._

He lifted his eyes to catch hers, and ordered, "Arms up, above your head."

_Oh well_, she thought as she obeyed, clutching the edge of the other side of the desk to give him better access. He licked every trace of the drink off her, his tongue heading decisively up, between her breasts where he wandered longer, going around but never over her nipples—barely clothed with ruined dress—and he sucked on her pulse then did something really wicked with his tongue to, thank god, her empty ear. She drew in a sharp breath, and realized that she needed to keep him away from her ears too and that would be yet another problem. Suddenly he bit her flesh, hard, drawing blood. She drew in another sharp breath, and a reluctant whimper followed as he sucked the skin he'd bitten, tasting her blood.

"_That's it—_"Bruce rasped, now truly panicked. "_I'm coming in!_"

"_No!_" she exclaimed, Ivanokovic lift his head to look at her, and she cursed mentally, looking something, anything to say.

"What?"

"Nothing, it's fine, I'm _fine_." She stressed the last word, darting her eyes towards the hidden camera, and lowered her arms. "Don't—stop."

Scowling, he shook his head, and leaned forward to pull out a drawer of his table. "Arms up," he ordered again and straightened, a black piece of silk cord dangling from his fingers.

She looked at the silk as he took her hands. "_If you get yourself tied up, I'm getting you out,_" Bruce warned.

His protectiveness was all well and good and she might have even liked it if it had been any other time but it really wasn't helping her at the moment. She wriggled in the money launderer's grip, pulling her hands free. "I think this is the best time to point out that—" Resting her hands against his knees, she raised herself up on the desk and pulled back on it. "—I really don't like bondage."

He scowled. "The Agency knows I go all ways."

A baffled expression passed her features briefly as she tried to come up with something for that. "Um—"

He shook his head, his scowl deepening, and stood up, picking her up off the table. "They should have warned you to obey," he said, "I don't like disobedient girls," he informed her, his voice taking on a note on menace, and she thought that the fucking drug needed to start showing its effect _now_.

He dropped her on the bed, and she looked around. His desk and bed was on the same line so it could be in the camera's sight too, Valerie thought, and her suspicions were confirmed by yet another of Bruce's sharp breaths. Bracing her palms, she slid herself backward on the silken sheet, as he leaned over her, his voice accusing. "Now _you're_ wasting my time."

_Fuck!_ "It's just that—I've been told I've got magical hands and—" she slid again, her heels kicking on the sheet to move back as he advanced toward her on all fours, hovering just above her. She lifted her head up, and felt his breath over her face, smelling faintly of alcohol and smoke. "—and I've heard punishing disobedient girls can be so much fun."

That earned her another sharp _'Valerie, stop provoking him!'_ as Ivanokovic quirked his lips into one of the most wicked smirks on earth. "If you be a good girl," he pushed her into the mattress, "We'll do things youwant too."

After that he pulled her up by her hair, and kissed her, biting her lips, Bruce hissed, and she wondered yet again when that blasted drug was going to kick in.

The ruined dress was lowered over her shoulder as he deepened the kiss, his tongue forcefully seeking her throat, as he still held her roughly by her hair lifting her awkwardly off the mattress and the position felt awful. Honestly, she was all for rough sex, but not with this man, and certainly not while Bruce was watching and listening to it.

If he'd taken the drug normally it would have been around ten minutes before the drug started doing its magic so she calculated it would take at least twice that with his special kind of consumption and thankfully, they'd already wasted fifteen minutes. Which also meant she had to keep him busy for yet another five minutes, and _that_ meant he was wasting her critically short time with his tongue and lips. Twenty minutes gone; she was only going to have forty minutes before the cameras snapped back to real time, and catch her hands in the cookie jar.

Speaking of hands, his other one had found its way to her leg, where it gripped her hip forcefully, and she was sure his fingers would leave marks for the next morning; a souvenir from this night. _"Get out from under him!"_ Bruce barked as Ivanokovic forced himself fully between her legs, pulling them apart with his body.

God, if he kept doing this, they really would end up rolling around on the blasted sheet. And that would be really bad, not just because she didn't want him, but because she _still_ had big hopes on getting Bruce into bed in the near future, and _this_ would put a huge dampening on that prospect. Bruce wouldn't be logical about it, she just knew. She wasn't kidding herself into believing that she'd get anywhere near his bed if she let this man have his way with her just to gather information, even if the said information would bring all of the mobs in Gotham into his clutches. And she didn't _want_ him to have his way with her. It shouldn't have bothered her so much, shouldn't have made her dread that much, shouldn't have turned the bile in her stomach, just kissing him, but it did.

So…the facts were...clear. She still needed to keep Ivanokovic busy. Bracing herself she gathered some strength, and twisted them around in an impromptu move, before using the momentum to flip them entirely, and voila she was on top of him, straddling his legs. She slid her dress back over her shoulder and looked down at him, a cat-smug smirk tugged on her lips. "Much better," she announced, letting out a deep, satisfied breath.

Ivanokovic looked dazzled for a second but the next he eyed her, looking impressed. He reached over her, caressing her cheek before clasping her chin violently. He drove her head back, and gave her a look that she had seen so many times, from _lots_ of lovers, before they had announced their undying—lust for her, and she knew what he would say even before he uttered the words. "I believe I'll have to make you into a habit." And that was the closest thing to a declaration of affection a man like Alexander Ivanokovic could admit. She couldn't help it; a small sense of triumph filled her at the conquest.

Although the affection was short-lived as he switched to dirty talk the next second. "You're like a wild mare, begging to be thoroughly done, and I'll give you such things, will fuck you so hard all night that in the morning you won't even be able to walk properly."

She moved her hips against his crotch, grinding _and_ grinning, "Promises, promises," and Bruce growled so loud into her ear that for a second her heart came into her throat for fear that Ivanokovic heard it too. _"For God's sake, woman! Stop! Provoking! Him!"_ Her insides flared from his uncharacteristically possessive, heated voice and she glanced toward the watch at the bedside and saw that she'd managed to waste another five minutes. She bent forward to look closely at the money launderer's eyes and then ignoring Bruce's grunted objections, she caught the man's lips in a searing kiss. She counted silently as their hands and lips started to interact in a friendlier way, then she caught his hands, exactly two minutes later and pulled back to observe the specific glaze over his eyes, the distorted expression, eyebrows pulled into a confused scowl.

She laughed silently as her current position over him had not only given her the control back but it also had provided much needed leverage. She didn't waste any time, he fast hands taking the black cord out of his grip as she tightened her legs around his body and tied the cloth around his mouth.

His eyes widened as he understood what was happening, and his hands flew to her. Smiling nastily, she caught them again, dropping her weight down further and pressing them into the mattress much like he had done to her minutes ago. "Liked you tied better," she murmured.

Bruce was quiet about that provocation, caught up in the moment with her as she held tightly onto the figure bucking beneath her, while the bed creaked loudly with their movements and—she thought absently—it was a _really_ good thing that they were supposed to be fucking each other senseless or there would be trouble from the goons outside. She held him tighter, her eyes glinting, her face set in determination, waiting for his movements to cease.

It took another two minutes until he stilled completely but it was only after she heard his heavy breathing that she lessened her grip. Straightening herself, she swung her leg over him and sat on the edge of the bed. She tied the upper section of her dress into a messy knot and let out a deep, loaded breath.

"Are you crazy? Pouring the drink on yourself?" Bruce yelled, his anger pouring into his tone. "What were you thinking?"

"He wasn't going to drink it. We made a tactical mistake." She paused, standing up and remarked indifferently. "I shouldn't have looked this doable." She pursed her lips, her gaze already travelling around the room. "Well, it went well."

Bruce growled under his breath and shot her another warning. "This is _not_ a game."

She turned to where the camera was hidden, crossed her arms over her chest, and tried not to think of how stupid she must look arguing with a voice only she could hear. "Do you honestly believe I took _that_ as a game?" Her hand pointed the bed, her voice rich with acute earnestness. "If you don't get it, Bruce, let me make it clear for you. I just went through a rape attempt." All in honesty, it couldn't exactly be categorized as one, but Bruce would still understand what she was saying. He seemed to have a—way—to see through what she was saying.

He remained silent for a second. "I know. I'm—sorry. But—" He stopped then continued slowly, "you didn't seem too much… worried."

She dropped her arms and turned her head to the right. "Unpleasant things happen to people all the time, there is no point worrying over it." She knew Bruce was about to say something about such a remark but she was never going to know what it was because she didn't let him. She turned her eyes back to the cameras, and they gleamed with animated fire as she said, "But it doesn't mean you go without fighting. All right," she clapped her hands, dismissively turning from the topic, "First things first." She went toward the money launderer's desk and sat in front of the computer.

Bruce seemed to be satisfied enough to drop the subject as well keeping his silence, and as if fate itself decided to show her some mercy at last, the laptop was still open. The email he had been typing when she had entered was gone and erased but at least she didn't need to go through any bothersome security protocols. "Computer's still powered up," she informed, smiling as she took off her shoes, and fished out the flash drive they'd hid inside. She plugged it in, and watched the spy virus infiltrate Ivanokovic's hard drive, connecting it to Bruce's computer, before she left him to deal with the rest.

Barefoot, she rose and stood in the middle of the room studying it, carefully, her eyes meticulously taking everything in. Searching through a place to find something, especially something unspecific, was a job that required observation skills and time. Time she was short on at that exact moment, but observation skills, she had gallons. Her gaze skipped over his desk, his library, his bedside tables, his walls, and then it caught on a panoramic landscape painting opposite of the bed. She walked toward it, frowning.

"The right corner's tilted up," Bruce's faintly content voice echoed in her ear.

Tilting her neck she slid the painting up to unveil a biometric safe behind it. Sniffing, she dropped the painting, covering the safe again and went to the library.

"Shouldn't you at least try to open it?" Bruce asked, trying to be civil. He must have thought she had let it go because she had deemed the safe as a lost cause. Her eyes skimmed through the books fast, her finger trailing along each of them as she replied. "I don't need to." She pulled one book out of the upper line. Compared to the upper line the ones below were dustier suggesting that they weren't lifted off as regularly.

"Move over there and try it," he snapped. So much for civility.

She sighed out, flipping through the book's pages. "Seriously, Bruce, you have _eyes_, why not use them? I guarantee you it'll be a marvelous experience." Bruce countered her jab with silence. She huffed and explained. "It's a distraction. _Look_ _around. _I know you're a smart guy, are the security cameras fussing with your vision_?"_

Again silence… "He arranges his desk according to right angles, everything in perfect symmetry, his pens are arranged by color, the whole library is set in alphabetic order. He _is_ a symmetry freak. He even tore my dress in half in a straight line—" She paused to take a small breath, "This man wouldn't leave anything in disorder, in plain sight, unless he wants you to be distracted by it, that's it!" She snapped close a good copy of the first edition _Ulysses_. A symmetry freak money launderer that owned the first edition of _Ulysses_… What kind of a world was that she'd ended up, she wondered. _Bruce Wayne's world. _"There is nothing of importance in there."

She set the book back in its place, and picked up another. She was not going to leave the slightest trace behind that would hint at exactly what she was seeking. Let the money launder ponder it, with his memories like a mush, and his brain shrink out, trying to make sense out of everything.

"You have good observation skills," Bruce suddenly flattered her.

"Well, I figured out who you are, didn't I?"

"Yes, yes you did." He paused for a second. "You never told me how."

Her hands searched through the books quickly while she answered, "You know how." There was something hidden there, she was sure of it.

Bruce remained silent, and she waited a while for him to ask the real question but when she gathered that he wasn't going to, she laughed. "Bruce, really, your _subtlety_ just flatters me." Her expression turned neutral as she explained. "You were holding up the LSI dealing and that was pissing me off quite a lot. And your dearest friend Fox was pissing me off even more." She made a face, full of disdain. "I wanted to stir things up but he sent me back to study the funds once _again_. So I did and while I was there I went deeper looking for some dirt on Fox, just to spite him." She sighed. "I was really—pissed. I needed your signature on the papers to tie up my plan and finish it, but you were dragging things out without a reason…well, at least I didn't know your reason at that time…" She shook her head a little. "Anyway, while I was searching I noticed some… irregularities in the books, a glitch of sorts, and I noticed everything corresponded to each other; you claimed Wayne Enterprises, Fox rose to power again, and Archives merged with Appliance Sciences—all of them happened on the same day, the day of the glitch. Then I knew I'd found something to gloat or better yet, threaten Fox with. Both would've worked." She let out a low laugh. "I wasn't picky."

Bruce was still silent, so she went on. "I wasn't expecting to find _that_. In fact, it was a little surprise but everything started to make sense. You lost your parents to a criminal and with all of your unlimited resources you wanted to make a change." She let out a small, faint sigh. "It was—logical."

"You're good at reasoning, too," Bruce finally said.

"Um, no," for unknown reasons, she confessed. "I didn't know you were _actually _him until Fox took my words the wrong way and mentioned it to me. I'd thought you were just backing him up." She let out another small sigh. "Your pretenses are really good, Bruce. I sensed something a little off but I had many things on my mind and you were… well, I think I just took your antics as the eccentricities of being filthy rich. Only after Fox's little slip was I able to discover your secret fully." She laughed with a sniff. "I was a little shocked, honestly. But when I thought it thoroughly all of the missing pieces fit. Everything _really_ started when you came back to Gotham, and you'd disappeared on the same day when, um, the killer of your parents was killed. It was your own personal quarrel, your own personal vendetta." She paused, and asking why he blamed himself for his parent's death crossed her mind but she didn't. Instead she said, "I can be wrong, sometimes." Yes, she could be wrong, she hadn't realized Ronnie had set her up in Jason's house even when he had given her tidbits of hints, and when he had resorted to calling her Sarah it had been too late. She pushed another book into its place forcefully and sniffed. "Not this time though."

She opened another book. "Oh." She smiled. "Hello beauties," With a laugh, she welcomed a coin collection that was hid throughout the pages of the book. She valued them with careful eyes, her attention already drawn from her grave musings.

"We're leaving them behind," Bruce's stern voice warned her immediately and yet he still managed to keep any accusation out of it.

"Spoilsport," she hissed with a playful tone rather than annoyed, took another book, and opened it. And there it was, a small page, folded in half, dropping to the floor. She bent to pick it up. It was a list of transactions of several bank accounts. She clicked her tongue. "Bingo." Searching for the purse that she'd thrown on the couch she took out her phone, took a few quick photos, then sent them to Bruce and deleted them.

She cast a glance at the clock. Ten minutes… So she had still another thirty minutes…but first… She glanced back at the bed.

She walked back to it, and sat next to the unconscious man, carefully facing with the camera. She couldn't just let her performance go to naught, _especially_ when she had such a unique audience. She bounced up and down, testing the bed. "Hmm, that should do it."

"What are you doing?" Bruce asked, his voice lowered in suspicious confusion.

"The thugs outside," she started swaying back and forth and up and down, creaking the mattress as she explained. "They expect some sounds, you know, _Alexie_ and me are supposed to be having some wild sex here. It'd peak their interest if I kept quiet. Don't worry, it'll take just a few minutes," her tone turned lusciously husky, "he is in _hurry_."

In answer she was confronted with silence.

Bracing her hands on bed, she shook it violently then let out a groan, loud enough to be heard from outside before gasping out, "Oh, fuck, don't stop."

She wondered what Bruce was thinking as she picked up her movements together with the level of her moans. He'd already known she'd at least once masturbated thinking of him, and now he would have something close to that experience. Idiot, if he would cave in, he could have the very first-hand experience. Bed creaking loudly, she uttered a few interesting phrases of vulgar language and started to spill the usual nonsenses.

"Yessss," she wailed, rolling her eyes. "Oh, yeah…oh yeah…nya, nya…don't stop, ahhhhhhh—" Another loud, and hoarse groan with a violent shake. "Nya, nya, ahh, harder, fuck... fuck, right there, just right there—"

But the bed wasn't making enough noises for her preference. She stood up on her knees, slid over to the headrest to shake it, a long string of 'yes, nya, more, harder' with 'right there' pouring out of her mouth, along with long hoarse wails and groans. Bruce was still silent in her ear, and she was getting warmer, and that tug between her legs pulled at her for reasons definitely not related to the man lying sprawled on the bed next to her. She extended her arm toward the bedside table knocking the clock to the floor for a better show, and decided to finish herself off.

She picked up her movements, bouncing on her knees, dropping her head back, her eyes closing, thinking yet again of Bruce, not particularly something of him but just generally him, and let out a scream loud enough to be heard throughout the whole fortress. That would have quelled down even Ivanokovic's inexistent but expected groaning and bellowing. She dropped herself on the bed. She stared at the ceiling, waiting for her erratic breathing and pulse to cease. After a second, she rolled herself over, and mounted Ivanokovic with a laugh. "Oh my, _weren't _you amazing." She leaned down to give him a peck on his closed lips. "Sleep tight, honey." She hopped off the bed.

She let out a deep breath. "Uh—kay. Let's see what secrets this room holds, shall we?"

She checked her watch. Twenty six minutes.

She walked along the walls, her empty ear attached to the surface, her fingers tapping. No hollow sound was heard so she dropped on her knees and started to tap the floor. Nothing. Frustrated, she straightened back up.

Fifteen minutes…

"Try the mopboard," Bruce suggested at last, his voice slightly hoarse but collected.

She scowled. "I was going to."

There was nothing. She pulled out all of his drawers, searching behind and under; then the mattress, couch…nothing.

Ten minutes…

"Time's up." Bruce said. "Pick up your things."

She shook her head, walked toward the bathroom. "There _has to_ be a stash around here, I can find it."

"No."

She didn't listen.

"Valerie!"

She ignored him.

Five minutes…

"Out," Bruce growled, "_now._"

"I just need two mi—"

"Valerie, _DON'T_ make me come there."

Bowing her head in defeat, this time she acceded. She took the cord out of Ivanokovic's mouth, and undressed him quickly before pulling the satin sheets over him and resting him comfortably on the pillow. She pulled the flash drive from the computer then looked at her ruined dress and fixed the knot she'd made to cover her nipples; she tossed the artificial hair around, mussing it, then ran her hands over her face, giving special attention around her eyes to ruin the make-up, and pinched her cheeks to redden them. There was already a faint trace of sweat on her face from all of her hard work searching so she didn't bother with it. She slipped her shoes on and checked herself in the mirror. Yep, she looked thoroughly—_done_.

She opened the door and was confronted with two guards that were standing up across the wall. She left the door open enough to give them a slight view of Ivanokovic sleeping inside. They gave her matching leering smiles. "He dozed off. But before he did, he said I could go home."

That would work because Ivanokovic wasn't a habitual all nighter, even though he paid the girls for the night, he rarely kept them that long. The trick was going to be feeding them the crap about him dozing off. But after her phenomenal performance back there, she knew they could easily eat that up. One of the guards went inside to check the money launderer as the other started searching her. He went through her bag then started with her body. It wasn't really necessary given that there wasn't any place that she could actually hide anything in her current state—well, any place that he knew—but the man didn't look like he was going to lose a chance to grope her.

His hands touched all over her body, feeling every curve, halting a little longer around her breast. "Those will leave bruises," he commented conversationally over the places Ivanokovic bit and gripped roughly.

"Do your job," she snapped back.

"Hurry up," Bruce warned her. "Last two minutes before the cameras back online."

She cursed mentally as the guard lowered himself, patting her legs, his hands going decisively up toward her groin. She blocked his hands before he touched her there, and pushed them back. "To touch there you have to pay me first, very handsomely."

"All places," the bodyguard reminded.

"Valerie, what's happening?" Bruce asked, worried.

She ignored Bruce, took a step back and summoned all of her arrogance. "I wonder what Alexie would think if he learned that one of his men tried to cop a feel from his woman?"

In normal circumstances _Alexie_ probably wouldn't mind it but the guard looked doubtful as she had expected and took a step back. The other one joined them too, nodding his head in a way to indicate 'all is okay'. She sent a silent grateful prayer to whomever listening and started to walk, not hastily but not entirely slowly either. When she disappeared out of their sight, she jogged along the corridor and whispered to Bruce, "Coming out in a minute."

Once she was out to the garden, she dropped her pace again, and waved a flirtatious hand at the bodyguards while passing them. "Have a goodnight, boys. It was nicest to meet you."

"Last thirty seconds," Bruce hissed. "Stop flirting."

"Marilyn has a reputation to uphold, Bruce." She walked out of the main entrance and began running to the right street as the distinctive van approached. It stopped just beside her. She hopped into the front side and quickly slid herself back to monitor the screens.

Just when they turned to another street she saw the guards, heavy with guns, make their way into Ivanokovic's bedroom, one shaking his body to wake him up as she pressed the button on the device to erase the last two hours entirely from the database.

"It's done," she said, feeling satisfied by yet another mission accomplished, her heart beating fast. Then she announced with a trace of sadness, "Marilyn Sinclair's entirely gone." She'd loved the girl.

"When we go back, we're going to have a talk about 'no improvising.'"

Rolling her eyes, she mouthed semi-silently, "Save your breath."

"I heard that!"

"I meant you to."

"You made it at the _last_ second. We were on this before. You were supposed to return in last ten minutes."

"Well, Ivanokovic was supposed to go down in the _first_ ten and look how that turned out."

Bruce's gaze immediately skipped to her. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, fine," she said, jumping over him to the front seat. She pulled the upper side of her dress into a knot again, yanked off the wig, "Ugh, I should have found that stash."

"We have a hard drive full of data and a list of bank accounts that we didn't know before," Bruce commented, his voice getting a bit softer. His eyes dropped on her again and spotting the bruises, teeth marks, they darkened. "You're okay, right?"

"Yes!" she snapped, throwing the wig behind. "Stop asking me that."

"Excuse me for caring about you!"

She closed her eyes, inhaling a short breath. "I'm—it's just—" She huffed out and shook her head. "I'm not used to have people caring about me."

His eyes skipped toward her again. "Get used to it then."

She looked at him, gulped, and smiled faintly back.

* * *

_A/N: Okay, starting the next chapter, Valerie's _domestication_ officially starts. Though, still, not expect miracles._

_Be seeing you..._


	14. Chapter 12

_A/N: Okay, I'm bored and at home, so I asked myself, 'self, why are we waiting to post these chapters?' I couldn't answer it in a satisfying manner, so, I've had a change of heart. I'll post the third arc too, then we'll see. It'll probably distract me :)_

_Did I mention I hate winter?_

_P.S: Those of a few of you who kindly favorited or alerted the story, I'm sure, but I'll be spamming you a little bit. _

_Enjoy._

_(and don't try to keep up with Valerie's fake personalities, she's adopting another one in this chapter. Even I as the author lost the track of it. My last count was something like...ten or nine...:))_

**Chapter Twelve:**

* * *

When Bruce walked into the room for the late breakfast, Valerie was already seated behind the table with her legs pulled up against her chest, reading the newspaper with a deep frown settled on her brows. She lowered the paper to give him a somber look, which he responded to with a raised eyebrow.

"We have a problem," she explained. "The press learned the details about our neighborhood serial killer."

Sitting on the chair in front of her, he snatched the paper out of her hands and found the article signed by Vicki Vale. In which the noisy reporter had spilled every single detail regarding the case, included the dog, and the white pickup, questioning why the police had kept the news secret from the public.

He dropped the paper. "They were going to find out sooner or later. Did you find anything on the coffin?"

"Nope. Handmade, no labels or logo, not fabricated as the Commissioner said," she replied, taking a sip from her orange juice. "I've not given up yet, though. I'll find something."

"We must be overlooking something," he growled faintly. "Ten days and we haven't managed to find out anything. I've been focused on the Irish for too long."

"And he hasn't struck again in ten days. Maybe we were wrong. Maybe…maybe it was a one-time-thing."

He gave her a look, she huffed out. "Okay, I didn't believe it either." She took another sip from her glass as Bruce picked up his tea. "Okay, let's think over it, shall we? State the facts despite the dangers of stating the obvious, brainstorming." She paused a little, puckering her lips. "We need to have a white board for this." His eyes turned to her. She waved a nonchalant hand. "You know, scratching out the facts and such… don't give me that look, it's sort an of American custom—and what am I telling you, remember, wrinkles?"

"Do you always need to do that?"

"Do what?"

"Talking incessant nonsense."

"Bruce," she drawled silky, her lips pulling into a wolfish smirk. "It's a defense mechanism." It was more than that actually. It was one of her charming abilities that she'd honed because she had learned over the course of her life that talking a way too much was always for the best.

Chatter and chatter and someone would soon beg you to end it, instead of trying to find out what there was behind the locked door. And words she adored, for they were misleading, and always offered the best distractions. Words… her dear precious words had given her the best discovery of her life even though it'd turned it upside down. The discovery of her life gave her another look. She pointed her finger at him. "Ask any shrink; thou shall not repress your feelings."

He kept staring at her, and she shrugged. "Okay, right. There was a team, at least three eyewitnesses said they saw three men inside the white pickup, but there were no further reports on facial recognition, nor was there any CCTV coverage." He nodded before she went on. "They must have brought the poor man out, masquerading as if he was moving. They probably hid him inside his couch. We have two convicted criminals on our hands exactly fitting the descriptions… What was the name of that moving company?"

"Take Away Company…?" Bruce asked, grimacing.

She snickered. "Do you remember Elm Street's burglars five years ago?"

"No… I wasn't—here at the time."

"Yeah, but you read the reports. Two people, one of them chewing gum all the time. They parked outside of the houses during the day and emptied out what was inside and no one even asked questions. When they tried to rob a private military lodging, they got caught—" She paused. "It actually wasn't a bad idea, I mean, until they tried to rob the military—idiots." She paused again for a breath. "And they were released on probation for good conduct three years ago. The police have been looking for them with no success yet," she indicated her hand to him, "as for my favorite vigilante."

"I'll find them." Bruce said flatly, taking a sip from his tea. "The grave," he remarked, looking at her, his grimace tightening the lines of his mouth.

"Yes?"

"It was six feet deep, and 2.5 feet by 7 feet, dug meticulously, and measured expertly all within the standards of a professional grave." He knew because he had checked, several times.

"And?" she asked.

"How many people do you think might know how to dig a standard grave?" He watched her as the proverbial wheels turned in her mind and then her eyes narrowed. She pointed a finger at him, nodding her head, impressed.

"Bruce, you always say the most interesting things." She leapt to her feet, taking a piece of toast, "Gimme a few hours."

One and a half hours later she found the study, just before he was about to leave for a luncheon tea with Mr. Elliot. Her hands full of papers, she barged into the room, and hopped on his desk.

He leaned back against his chair as she threw the papers aside and started to talk fast. "All right, there are six cemeteries in Gotham and no one seems to bother with digging graves by hand anymore, well, statistically a few hundred people die every day in Gotham so I presume it might be a little difficult to dig holes for each person by hand. The graves are dug by the operators that are employed by the cemeteries' managements, dozens of them by the backhoes." She paused to take a deep breath. "Only two of the six cemeteries are still operating, the others are already over quota, and not taking in any new comers so I suggest starting with those two and talking with their caretakers."

Bruce took her notes, read the cemeteries names, and nodded. "Okay. I'll rain check my dinner date tonight and go out earlier to check this out."

"Nonsense—"Bruce gave her a pointed look. "Well, what do you think the caretakers would say to Batman?" He kept looking at her, and she let out a puff. "Bruce, these aren't mob bosses. I don't even suppose that they're suspects but they could be related to the case, and because of that we need to make them talk, ease them into a chat… about… the past."

"You have something in your mind," he declared.

"I've been thinking about it… Let me clear my mind." She paused. "We so need that white board… Okay, tell me, what do you think of this man? His age, his race, his motives, anything…"

Bruce rested against the chair's back, his expression thoughtful. "Early thirties, possibly Caucasian, no trace of accent, so I'd say not Hispanic or African-American and he's after revenge. He said a dog, someone's loyal friend, then a father… Obviously it's related to a retired detective, so I guess it might be a gang's doing, some sort of getting even…" He looked at her expression. "But that doesn't exactly fit into typical gang revenge either, does it?

"Or the mob's punishments…" she murmured.

"Like a game, he buries them alive then makes people search…"

"A child—" she said slowly, "A child plays a game, a wicked game, buries a dog, then a father… then makes people look for their graves… Why?"

"Because he lost his own?"

"Perhaps, but that doesn't explain why he buries them, and not to mention alive."

"Maybe he lost someone, and never found out if they were alive or dead," Bruce tried again.

She locked her eyes on his. "We need to know everything about Detective Sylar. This is personally about him."

"Yes," he agreed, nodding gravely.

"In the meantime, I have a plan." She smiled. "You know, I liked photographer Bruce a lot."

* * *

Smiling, she pinched his bearded cheek. "Don't you look cute?" Bruce shoved her hand away and gave her a look. "Really, darling, you picked up the wrong profession. You would have been such a talented con-artist."

Admittedly she wasn't lying. The fake beard hid his famous features, with the addition of a cap. He wore baggy trousers with lots of pockets too, and a vest in dark brown with even more pockets. He'd done a good job impersonating a photojournalist who had just arrived from the Middle East; almost too good a job of it. She slid her hands inside the back pockets of her jeans, bounced on her heels, laughing. "Don't frown. It was a compliment."

He gave her another look before shoving her slightly at the door. She turned on her heels and sauntered off. She didn't looking bad either. Dark jeans wrapped her legs like a second skin, another vest with too many pockets lay over her white top, and basic sneakers were on her feet, her hair pulled up in an everyday ponytail… She didn't look bad, no, she didn't.

Beside the door, smiling, she wrapped a dark green cashmere scarf around her neck and hung a big messenger bag over her shoulder before they exited out of the manor.

Alfred drove them to the city center with Bentley and then they left via a back alley and took the subway, while Valerie rambling… "Tomorrow morning, first thing, I'm buying a compact car, this is _ridiculous_—" as Bruce gazed out upon his city.

On the outskirts of the city, Gotham General Cemetery greeted them with a big darkened metal gate warning, "Every soul shall have a taste of death." Valerie rolled her eyes as they stepped under it to walk onto graveyard's grounds. "Brilliant pep talk. They certainly know how to make people feel all cozy—"He tuned out her chatter, his eyes traveling around. Rows and rows of the dead, lying neatly in the ground, with heavy somber stones marking their presence… He shuddered slightly. God, he forgot how much he hated cemeteries.

They walked over to the caretaker's house, a simple cottage, prefabricated, the bleak atmosphere of the graveyard dimming even the white painted siding. Valerie knocked on the wooden door repeatedly until it was open by a middle-aged man, with thinning hair, and insipid eyes, on a face that was ghostly pale.

She pulled out a bright smile. "Mr. Delmont is it?" she asked with a voice that wasn't inappropriately chirpy but still full of life. "Hi. I'm Marion Clint and this is Brian Almont of Gotham Days. We talked on the phone this morning."

Mr. Delmont gave her a look. "I thought you were making fun of me."

She paused then shook her head a little. "No, I wasn't. We'd really like to have a talk with you." She tilted her head and gave the man another small reassuring smile and Bruce watched as the suspicious man stepped aside to let them in, his gaze stuck on her. Bypassing him, she turned to Bruce and gave him a little wink.

Inside the caretaker settled them beside the stove on two stools and rubbed his hands together, his eyes still on Valerie. "So, Ms. Clint—"

She smiled further, "Please, Marion."

"So, Marion, what do you want to talk about?"

"I'm making a feature about Gotham's old graveyards and their people. Cemeteries are a city's cultural motif and it seems to me that no one really cares about them." She fished her tape recorder out of the bag and pressing play, put it on her knees. "So…since when have you worked here?"

"Five years…before that I was at St. Joseph's. People always assume that we stay in one graveyard all of our lives but it's not exactly true—of course there are some exceptions, as with everything but this is not a profession that succeeds from father to son."

"I see," she mumbled while Bruce started to take photos of the little house and from the windows, the graveyard outside. "How about your life here then? What do you do?"

"Me?" he asked, shrugging. "Usually—nothing. I walk a lot, on the grounds, looking around. Then at night we shift guards, actually the nights are worse… The homeless, beggars," he paused, "young lovers, doing all sorts of things. Most of the time we just run them off."

She smiled shyly, her cheeks blushing, and Bruce knew she was starting to manipulate the conversation even before she uttered the words. "I saw a lot of open graves walking here… expecting new arrivals?"

She really never disappointed. He turned his head to watch the man as he gave her an unreadable look. "There are always new arrivals, Marion, always. People die."

_Marion_ looked at him with another shy look and turned her eyes away, ashamed. "But no… we always have open graves, the operators come and open them every week, then during the week we hold funerals and then they come back again…it's a routine."

She leaned forward, her eyes gleaming, "You don't dig them, do you?"

"That would a little bit impossible."

"But you must certainly know how to do," she asked, eyes still gleaming, biting her bottom lip. The caretaker's gaze stuck on her again, mesmerized and Bruce wondered if she'd gotten him in her clutches this easily; just a few bright smiles, eager looks, and a few sensual acts that seemed unconscious and voila… He surpassed the urge to bare his teeth in irritation.

"Six feet under, 2.5 feet by 7 feet …never did it. I don't believe anyone knows how to do it anymore." He paused a little. "Well, actually, old Ray might know. I heard he learned the job from his papa, you know, he's one of the exceptions, father to son. They say he still digs graves by hand; runs off the machines, crazy old man…talks a lot. Papa this, Papa that." The caretaker laughed as Valerie's eyes skipped to Bruce.

"Where we can find this old Ray?"

"Him? He's the caretaker of the Homeless Cemetery."

Valerie leaped on her feet and smiled the man once again. "Thank you, Mr. Delmont. You've have been a great help." She started to walk out, Bruce following on her trail. "I'll give you a call once I get it published."

As soon as they were out she looked at him, the bright smile turning into a savage smirk, predatory. "Now," she punctuated the word with a drawl, "how about a visit to that lovely old gentleman?"

* * *

Bruce's eyes floated over the graveyard, left to desolation with a criminal negligence and graves marked with broken stones, most of them nameless before they fell back onto the man in front of them. Mr. Delmont wasn't kidding. The man was old, ancient with skin dry like dead plants, full with wrinkles and so very, very thin. Valerie gave him a bright smile which was promptly returned with the old man's scowl. "What do you want?" he asked, taking a puff of a cigar that smelled of cannabis.

Not put off by the rude greeting, Valerie went along with her nice journalist persona. "Hi. I'm Marion Clint and this is Brian Almont of Gotham Days. We're making a feature about the graveyards of Gotham and we'd really like to talk with you." A hopeful smile appeared on her lips. "Can you spare us a minute?"

The old man looked at her, unaffected, and grimaced even more. "I have no time for press bitches. Get lost." He let the door close in their face.

She flinched back at the snap of the door then looked at Bruce in bewilderment.

Despite everything, Bruce couldn't help but smile at the look on her face. On their way back to the city center, she didn't stop rambling about stupid old crazy fools then fished out her telephone and made a call. "Mr. Delmont, hi, it's Marion. Yeah, thanks, you?"

She paused a little then talked quickly. "I'm afraid I need your help again. I went to see Mr. Ray and he was… well, he wasn't very friendly." She hesitated. "I know I'm asking too much but I was wondering if you could talk with him and ask for an interview on my behalf?" She lowered her tone. "Could you do that for me? I'd be very grateful…"

Silence then she giggled shyly. "Why not? I'm off on Friday nights."

"Okay, I'll wait for your call. Thank you so much."

She snapped the phone curtly, whispering 'idiot'. Then she turned to him, and gave him a pissed look. "The things I do for you, Mr. Wayne."

* * *

Charlie Fields sat in the passenger seat while Burke drove to the GCPD Training Center and Animal Shelter to talk with the director of facilities to learn about the retired K9. Unlike his usual maddening driving, Charlie observed, this time his younger co-worker drove within normal standards. His reddened eyes were burning with sleep deprivation and he felt like two nails were drilling through his temples. Two days with two and a half hours of sleep on a couch at the headquarters and he looked worse for the wear, well, more so than usual. Things had been bad enough when they had a potential serial killer on their hands but the bad had turned immediately to worse when the press had started making a fuss about it. Perhaps even the worst, but he didn't say it because Charlie believed that saying things before they happened was a bad omen, ever since his mother had died the very day he told her that he wished her dead in a fit of adolescent anger. He'd not dared to fool around with the fate again.

Burke sped up as Charlie turned his mind from that particular thought and once again tried to organize the facts about the case, which were admittedly not very much; an unknown killer, one dog and one man buried alive, a white pickup, an unlabeled wooden casket, a detergent box, and a world turning upside down. Dying six feet under, tons of earth pressing the weight of the world down…

Maybe they had lost their way in too many details and hadn't asked one question they really needed to ask. Why? Why did he bury them? Psychopaths were known to be compelled to get their works acknowledged, and genius always looked for an audience, and for some of them killing was the cat-mouse game, but still… His gaze skipped toward Burke as the younger man murmured under his breath, his gaze fixed ahead. "This is a foul thing."

Burke had a bit of a temper and he had less sensibility than a log but he was a damn good cop, everyone knew it. "Now, the perpetrator's method is very obvious. The way they moved Papa Sylar out is clear. Their method of burying is clear as well. They went to a part of the city that was under renovation and probably did their work masquerading like they were from the construction teams. They are also familiar with burial rituals but the thing is—" He paused, grimacing, "Why, why did they bury, bury him alive and then call us? I mean, this is a revenge thing, that's very obvious as well. But why not simply just kill, bury and be done with it?"

A damn good cop, Charlie thought again, slanting a look to his younger man. "Oddly enough, I didn't figure out that part yet either."

Burke remained silent for a while then slowly said, "Everything seems perfect with Sylar's background. Actually, a little too perfect, as if someone scrubbed it clean."

Charlie wished he hadn't given up smoking. "Some things never get into the reports and briefs."

Burke let out a defeated sigh. "Well, fuck. You know what," he remarked, his tone hardening, "I don't like where this is going."

The next day, at a dinner party, Thomas Elliot found her circled by three models that happened to be Bruce's ex-dates after Bruce had ditched all of them to roll the dice with his newest dates. Valerie _preferred_ to stay in the company of the exes, though it must have been just another tactical mistake. Soon after his departure, as per what always happened when two of the fairer kind got together on such occasions, the conversation topics shifted rapidly between (and not necessarily in order) clothes, cosmetics and men, focusing especially on former ones. And with a twist of twisted fate, there was one topic in that regard that they all had in common.

Bruce Wayne. At some point in the conversation, all chatter dutifully turned to 'Did he do that; did he do this?' and then suddenly they started to make remarks that wandered into dangerous waters, slightly hinting at discrepancies but not openly admitting that they hadn't spent all the night with him, not exactly on his bed, because each thought the other had managed to do what she herself couldn't have, Bruce Wayne.

And it was horrible, just plain horrible controlling the conversation before one of the airheads revealed something she shouldn't. So Thomas Elliot, joining her circle and bringing her a glass of champagne, saved her before things got even more...horrible.

She took gladly what he offered and sighed out heavily as the girls turned to talk with Elliot, each trying to get him with silly remarks and downright ridiculous advances before her savoir turned down—quite humorously, she had to admit, if a bit rudely—each of them, and then with an ease that almost impressed her, sent all of them away.

She looked at the girls' retreating backs, feeling sure that tonight's topic for merry bitter-tittle-tattle would no longer be about Bruce Wayne, and let out a satisfied sigh, feeling content that another mission was accomplished.

She turned to look at the man then. "You know one of them would have really liked to see that view of yours, Thomas," she said, pointedly stressing his name. "Perhaps the brunette. I heard that is your preference."

She dangled the carrot toward him, as obvious as the ice berg that sunk Titanic and waited as he took the bait. "So Bruce talked to you," he commented and arched one eyebrow in intrigue. "Did he warn you off too?"

"Mr. Wayne can be very gallant," she admitted then pursed her lips, "well, sometimes."

He smiled. "But you don't seem to me like a girl who would mind a little danger." She gave him another look. "What did he tell you about me and I presume… Rachel?"

"He said that you had mixed her up in a bet to spite your stepsister. And somehow she ended up almost losing her scholarship."

Thomas barked out a laugh. "And he didn't even tell you any good parts." He eyed her. "Do you want to hear the whole story?"

Pretending to be bored, she looked around. "I guess the misadventures of some rich teenagers wouldn't be more boring than these people." She sipped at her glass, carefully so that Bruce wouldn't see and felt wondrously happy that she was able to make him talk about the past this easily. She was really on a roll these days, well except for that crazy old man, she thought begrudgingly. "By all means, do tell."

With his head, he pointed at a man across the ballroom, wearing a classical designer suit; "See that blonde guy?" Valerie's gaze fell on the tall, blonde, suave man as he watched the gathering in an indifferently bored manner, leaning causally against the wall, his attention everywhere other than his raven haired date next to him. "He's Dylan Thorne," Thomas went on. "He was—well, still could be… is I guess, my—you know we were…" He paused as if to search for a word and then settled on one, shrugging, "well, friends. He'd been casually seeing my stepsister when I decided to stir things up a little."

"Why?"

He shrugged again. "I was bored. And Dylan had a newly bought Porsche…We placed a bet on it that he could get Rachel into bed within a week. Rachel was quite famous in the school for her… untouchableness. My dear stepsister, Lina, didn't mind at first, as I said, they were very causal but then it got a little out of control. Dylan started to um, fall in love with Rachel, and it made our resident witch really mad. Madder. She blackmailed me to seduce Rachel away from him."

"How?"

"Well, she'd found out about some…amateurs films, staring me and my old dates." He sighed. "She threatened to tell father."

"Hmm."

"So things started to happen," he went on, grimacing. "I started to hit on Rachel then Lina seduced Dylan back to her and then left him," he continued, baffled.

She snickered. It was obvious. Any girl who minded her reputation couldn't have had someone dumping her. Of course she had to seduce him back, so that she could dump him after. So much for hoping for a good love triangle. "You told me absolutely nothing that was even slightly interesting."

"Oh…wait, it's only going to get better," he said dryly.

"So I was with Rachel and we started to hang out, then um, you know—"He looked as if he was ashamed and didn't know how to continue. She narrowed her eyes. "I found myself...affected," he finished.

She gave him an amused and slightly belittling look. He looked affronted, putting his right hand on his heart. "I can't possibly be blamed for the delusions of youth." His expression turned to leery after that, something purely speculative. "Don't look so disappointed. It passed quickly."

"Hmm," she said again.

"I'm not sure what happened then but I guess she felt threatened by Rachel. School was her playground. She came to me, demanding I break things off, which I refused—um a little bit rudely."

"Then Bruce sort of fell into the middle of it. He wasn't like this in high school. He was troubled, but was always withdrawn into himself—we used to call him—loser," he said it with a rueful smile. "Lina was aware that Bruce and Rachel had grown up together and also sharing a silent affection for each other. In a matter of days she seduced Bruce, just to spite Rachel. I didn't even notice it until Lina came to a party draped over Bruce's arm." He shot Bruce's direction an unreadable look. "I'm sure she stole his virginity too," he added mockingly.

"After the party, I found Rachel by the pool, and she was crying. We'd been sidestepping around—"his fingers made quotation marks, "—the Bruce issue but since Lina had made it quite obvious, I confronted her and convinced her to sleep with me. I was so content that I could have sent her a fruit basket," he said the last part with a hard grudge that was obvious there was more to tell. "I forgot about how much a snake she could be. After I left Rachel, Lina found her and told her about the bets and everything. Rachel found me later that night, and told me that she didn't want to see me ever again. At first I was upset then, I was a little bit relieved. Things could have been worse, I said to myself, and then things got worse the morning."

He sighed. "Lina had taken pictures of us by the pool. The next morning our pictures were all over the place on the school's news wall. We were sent to detention together for two weeks and Rachel saved her scholarship fair and square."

She tapped her lips with her index finger. "That was interesting, I have to admit. Your stepsister is—" She hesitated to find a right word, obviously she was a huntress and hunters were always territorial. Within a single night, she'd managed to wound Rachel profoundly not once or twice but three times.

"A scheming, backstabbing snake of a witch?" he supplied sweetly for her.

She smiled. "I was thinking more like cunning."

He shrugged, "Oh, that too."

Across the room, as if sensing the conversation had come to a halt, she saw Bruce swaying in their direction, his dates lost. Instead he was accompanied by a couple, walking gracefully beside him, their manners suggesting they were by the side of him only by happenstance. As they closed in she realized how familiar the man looked and turned to Thomas, narrowing her eyes at his stony expression. She turned back to the couple. The man was probably in his late fifties but he still looked handsome and elegant despite having a silly wide mustache over his lips. And the woman… she must have been the most stunning woman she'd seen in her years; possibly in her late forties, she was still, in one word, breathtaking.

Her raven hair lacked any grey and was pulled up in a fashionable bun, her blue eyes were piercing, her features like they were carved out of white marble, despite her age her graceful figure still slender and fit. She had an aura of royal arrogance, that encircled her like a second skin as she looked down on everyone around her, with contempt, openly indicating that they were not in her league and she knew she was above all of them and not only did she know people knew it but actually expected them to know it.

Needlessly to say, Valerie despised her.

She noticed Bruce eyeing the flute within her hand. She raised her head up, looking defiant. Bruce's drunken gaze turned back to the man, looking expectantly. She wondered what he was trying to do. Thomas didn't let her wonder more. "Father," he greeted the older man with a sharp tone and a sharper tilt of head. Ah…

Father nodded his head curtly without bothering a proper acknowledgement. So if he was his father then she must be… the stepmother. Father and son looked each other with expressions carved out of stone before Bruce came between them, introducing her. "Rupert, Melina, this lovely lady is my new bodyguard," he said without any trace of absurdity in his voice, waving a vague hand in her direction. "Sweetie pie, this is Mr. and Mrs. Elliot."

Mr. Elliot gave her a half nod, the gesture was nothing pleasant, and said certainly that she wasn't important enough for a full nod, but at least it was not as cold as the greeting he had given his son. Mrs. Elliot… well she did give a full nod and a smile that made Valerie wish she hadn't. Both of them were belittling and she turned her attention to elsewhere so swiftly that for a moment Valerie thought her neck would snap. She bit the inside of her cheek in order not to grimace.

Instead she turned her killer gaze to Bruce who looked like as if he was enjoying himself. And it was not even an act.

"I promised this dance to the lovely Ms. Ellyn earlier in the night." Father Elliot turned to face his wife. "My love—" He took her right hand, bringing it to his lips, and gave it a chaste kiss, lips just brushing skin. Dropping her hand, he gave a nod toward Bruce, "Wayne." Then he gave a simple look to his son and went back to the other side of the ballroom.

The stepmother looked at Thomas. "We heard you're still trying to open that club here in Gotham," she remarked, her voice was even and monotone, as if she was already bored with the conversation yet decided to give you a chance, and it should be regarded as a blessing.

"Yes," Thomas bit off.

"I see," she said serenely. "Your father has been quite affected by the last events. May I pray that you'll be more—" she paused, looking dramatic while she searched for a word.

"What?" he bit off again.

She looked coldly at him, and her voice was like ice, "Less disappointing."

_Ouch_. She actually saw Thomas's jaw twitch. "Melina—" he spat, "It's so comforting to see that you haven't changed at all." He looked at directly the eyes of his stepmother. "How is your baby witch nowadays?"

"Better than you, I'm afraid, judging by the company you keep," she countered. Insulted yet again, twice in a matter of seconds by this woman, she made a face and sniffed. Suddenly the woman's eyes were drawn to her and the corners of her mouth tilted up into a faint smirk. Goodness, she was actually laughing at her. The mother witch turned back to Bruce, nodding her head with a dismissive 'Mr. Wayne' and strode off.

Thomas stared after her, his eyes full of rage. "Sometimes I really pity Lina. Can you imagine being raised by someone like her?"

"No," she made a face, "God, no."

Chuckling, Thomas turned to her. Then his phone chirped once and grimacing he took it out. "I need to take that," he said apologetically.

"Someone important?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Quite." He gave her a roughish smirk. "It's my P.I"

She smiled then ignored Bruce to wait for his return. Thankfully she didn't need to wait long. Two minutes later he was back, looking close to something she would call happiness for the first time since she'd met him. Bruce raised his eyebrows skeptically, and she arched one curiously. "Good news?"

Thomas let out a real laugh, a happy one. "Yes, yes, quite. My P.I has just confirmed my suspicions on who turned me in to the police."

"Who was it?"

He took a few steps forward and whispered into her ear. "Who do you think? Sometimes I really don't know if I should fall on my knees in front of her in awe or strangle her to death."

She took a step back. "She didn't—?"

"Oh, yes, she most certainly did." He laughed merrily. "It seems I have to go. May I call you later?" he asked, his voice sounded at ease yet his eyes were demanding.

Shaking off the admiration for that girl, she lifted a shoulder. Thomas was right; she must really be one of a kind but that was her show. She raised her eyes to him. "I assume you might if you want to," she commented but didn't give him her number as Bruce looked at them with a hard face.

Taking her challenge, he nodded. "Then I'll certainly do." He took her hand like his father had done to his wife and gave it a quick kiss. "As always, it was a pleasure."

She smiled.

Bruce grimaced.

She sipped from her flute thoughtfully, staring at his retreating back. "Well, he certainly knows how to charm a girl," she remarked, her head tilted as her eyes fixated on the man's ass.

Following her gaze, Bruce glared at her then down at her flute. "You have no idea of the meaning of 'no', don't you?"

She turned to him and raised the flute up into his vision. "This barely affects me."

"That is beside the point."

Her answer came with a dry sniff, "What's the point?"

He glowered at her. She laughed and tugged her hand through his elbow. "Now, don't be like that; just smile for the cameras." He did as he was instructed while the sudden flashes appeared in front of their eyes, his billionaire playboy persona slapped back into place with a frightening speed. "And I might even forgive you for dropping that awful couple from hell onto us."

"What did he tell you? Who was the she he was talking about?" Bruce flashed an arrogant, lopsided grin that could be passed off as inebriated but certainly not wasted enough to be at Brucie's standards. Nonchalantly she realized her nose also wasn't picking up any stink of alcohol. So he decided to play a sober drunk tonight. "Who is she?" he asked again, swaying them away from the cameras toward the other side of the saloon.

"Oh. Someone you know very closely. Your first squeeze," His body tensed beside hers. She laughed. "Oh, yes, I know all about her. You somehow _forgot _to tell that part earlier. What was her name? Liny—Lina… Thomas usually just calls her witch."

"Selina," Bruce muttered darkly. "Her name is Selina Kyle."

* * *

A/N: Here the lovely Selina Kyle, another woman whose reputation preceding her :)

This subplot between Bruce/Rachel/Selina/Thomas/and Dylan, is something I call as 'Gossip Girl-Gotham Style'. It's largely inspired by _**Les Liaisons Dangereuses, **and by association also by** Cruel Intentions.**  
_

_And don't you think Bruce was looking like a loser in BB when he returned to Gotham for the trial. That look, that hair! No wonder why he ended up as Batman :p_


	15. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen:**

* * *

The next morning when Bruce went down to breakfast, seated at the table, Valerie was thoughtfully looking at the newspaper in her hands.

He could understand, he'd already seen papers and had found out that Vicki Vale was continuing to be a pain in the ass. When he sat down, she threw the journal away and said abruptly, "You need to do something with your dates before someone do something stupid."

He raised his eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"People talk, Bruce," she said with a sniff, eyeing Alfred as the older man entered into the room following his entrance. "And when their conversations start to dwell on the same topic for a while they realize the things that don't fit into places."

"What doesn't fit into places?"

She rolled her eyes dramatically, "Your cover, Mr. Wayne," and responded. "Your playboy cover is slipping. People have started to talk. I wonder how come they have not noticed things so far. I mean I noticed things were a little _bit_ off with you at the moment I set my eyes on you." She pursed her lips, pushing the glass in front her away. "Admittedly I am very smart and people at large are stupid but still—"she trailed off, looking at his bewildered expression.

She threw her hands in the air exasperatedly then waved them off to Alfred. "Help me out here, Alfred. How many dates did he bring to the manor or the penthouse this year?"

"None," Alfred supplied helpfully.

"Exactly," she punctuated the word with a flick of her wrist. "And people do wonder why. At first they thought it was something about themselves, not about you, cause you see, each thought the rest of the long list of your dates didn't suffer the same fate because all of them believed the rest had managed to do the thing herself couldn't, meaning—"she paused and pointed her hand mockingly at him, "—_you_. But they have started to talk a little too much now. Lots of unsatisfied women and conversations sooner or later bound to come into the object of their dissatisfaction—"She paused for a half breath, "—in this particular case, Bruce Wayne."

He looked at her. Despite of her crude mocking words, she was—right. Getting the dates off his neck had grown harder than before.

"Just yesterday your exes were talking why you never take your dates into your home. I managed to pull them off the topic with subtle hints that I suffered no such problems with you to get them thinking again something was wrong with them, not with you." Bruce glared but didn't rise up to her bait, instead swallowed the veiled insult to his manhood. She went on, "So if you want your cover still intact, you need to start taking them into your bed—"she paused for a second, "Unless you resolve to my ways and start drugging the poor girls to indicate you've had sex. And let me assure you, it's a harder job than it seems."

She pulled her leg from the chair where it was swung, and threw her feet on the table, taking the newspaper back to her hands, her attention already moved off him. He looked at Alfred. The older man's expression was thoughtful too, eyes clouded worry, not even a trace of mirth. He sighed. Also Alfred was thinking she had a point. Valerie spoke again causally behind her newspaper. "Of course you might just start to see a _girlfriend_ too."

Taken aback, he looked at her while she pulled the journal down. Holding his gaze defiantly, she folded it in half and put it on the table. "I thought you were being _considerate_," he grunted.

She lifted one eyebrow, corking her head, "Well, I _am_." He gave her another look. She shook her head back. "I assure you I'm only trying to help you with your _dilemma, _Bruce."

"And would you do that because…?"

She pressed her hand on her heart and sighed in an exaggerated manner, "Why, out of goodness of my heart, why else?"

"Yes, yes, you have such a golden heart," he sneered then asked suspiciously. "You'd be okay with that, pretending my girlfriend?"

"Well, I'm already pretending your _something_. Why not pretend something else too? Besides everyone already think you're helping yourself with me." He held on his reserves not to frown as she flashed at him a sultry smile. "It could be fun… just the sake of your cover we can even take other dates with us too; threesomes have been always my favorite." Laughing at his face, she waved a lazy hand toward him, "Just kidding. It's my… second… after bondage—I really don't mind it, Bruce." She paused a little, one corner of her lips pulling down. "I mean, as long as you don't _try_ to forbid me seeing other men."

"You can't be a girlfriend for two people at the same time."

She laughed at him, again. "No problem in that regard since I don't plan to be anyone's girlfriend."

He gave her a doubtful look and before he knew what he was doing the words popped out of his mouth. "Thomas Elliot might feel though differently on this subject."

Eyes gleaming amused, she gave him a speculative one back. "Look at us," she drawled, her voice turning to silky and full of mocking husk. "Just a few minutes, and we've already started to have domestics." She laid her palms flat on the table, eyes casted down momentarily before finding his again. "You don't need to worry about it. I meant romantic entanglements off the table; casual—_happenings_ are entirely another matter. Besides we can easily say we're having an open item. Think about it, Bruce," she lowered her voice even more, leaning forward, "You won't need to worry about the dates, your cover anymore… You can focus all your energy for your—job." She straightened back. "What do you say?"

What he could say? For every objection he would come up with, he was sure she had already prepared a defense. He really didn't want those women in his bed but he needed to do something about it, and he was already distracted as it was. She was right, dates were taking a lot of his valuable time and energy, and—and, dammit, she knew exactly how to push him. He looked at her.

Valerie was an attractive woman, _very_, in the ways that public wouldn't mind to see beside Bruce Wayne; she was glamorous, voluptuous, as in her own crude words a stunning _hot piece of meat_. But then again she was unreserved, already daringly provocative, almost impossible to handle, and he didn't really know he would have been able to deal with her if he let her infiltrate his personal space more than she'd already done. And if he agreed on her proposition now, he would owe her one, and sooner or later, she would come to collect that, she always did.

But she was also looking at him expectantly, eager eyes gleaming, as if she really wanted to help, help to _him_ and suddenly he found himself thinking it was the wisest course of action, despite everything. God, he thought remembering Mr. Delmont the caretaker.

"I won't have you at my side wearing anything close to green." He stood up. "That color really doesn't work with me."

She gave him a smug smile. "We'll see."

* * *

Bruce Wayne was a creature of self-discipline, meticulous researching, and prudence, she'd already noticed of course; she just hadn't realized the excessive scales of it before. He divided his attention half, one part focusing on the killer, the other on the Irish, and made everyone in his little merry fun club (so far the lucky attendants were Alfred and her) go over every detail of the both cases until he was satisfied, and goodness he wasn't easily.

In other times, Valerie would appreciate this particular attribution in a man very much but as of the moment it was pissing her off, quite a lot.

She gave another look through the bank accounts she'd discovered in Ivanokovic's room and let out a defeated sigh. Today's lucky pick was the Irish as he'd decided to throw a full-time research on the money launder, as if they hadn't been doing it already. Her gaze dropped on the paper in the study, circling them from possibly everywhere. She shoved the sheets over the couch, lied down, and dropped her head backward just below the arm rest. She propped her legs up on the back seat. "I feel like beating someone," she muttered, then hit her hands on her forehead. "Argh, I'm SO bored. Wanna take a break?"

Typically, Bruce's attention didn't waver from the hard drive he was searching nor did he answer. Like perfect partners, they had made a division of tasks; he'd taken the hard drive and she'd taken the bank accounts, and Alfred being the lucky one had gotten the scout's free. So far it didn't look it helped anything though cause division of labor or not, Alexander Ivanokovic still looked the same, impossible to crack.

She sighed another time, maybe it was time to pour into resources. Her head dropped further over the side of couch and she gazed at the ceiling as blood ran into her brain. It was funny; everything seemed indeed different when you looked at upside down. "Bruce," she called his attention again. "Maybe we're doing it at the wrong ways."

Bruce's gaze found her from downward, "Meaning?"

She locked her gaze on him, feeling her cheeks getting reddened from blood. "We know he's a criminal, I mean _guilty_, right?" Bruce kept looking at her, waiting. She dropped her legs down, twisted her body up and faced with him, sitting crossed legs on the couch. "We're trying to find an evidence to prove he's guilty but we already know it. Maybe we should concentrate on—uh, _acquiring_ one?"

He narrowed his eyes. "You mean we plant evidence?"

Getting in defense, she stood up and waved her hands around the room. "Well, we're not doing a good job with finding it, are we?"

He put the print-out in his hand down on the table, and looked at her. "Does it ever cross your mind that the reason why we're not finding it is because there isn't simply one?" He paused. "Maybe he's innocent."

Her eyes widened then she approached him quickly, bent down to pry into his eyes. "Who are you? And what did you do with my dearest Bruce Wayne?"

"I'm serious."

She straightened back. "So am I. No one is innocent, and—"She waved her arm at his screen. "—this man certainly is not even close. I don't need a bank account to tell me that, certainly not while we're being righteous he continues to do who knows what."

"Yes," he admitted. "Yes, perhaps you're right." He stood up, taking a few steps. "But we need to have some boundaries. We need to know where we draw the lines, or else—"He faltered then spoke again. "Say it's righteous or not, I'm not going to plant any evidence to frame someone even when I'm sure of being guilty." If he'd taken that path, where he would have stopped? No, it was too dangerous, too tempting. Alfred had been right. They had to know their limits…now, more than anytime… He'd learned his _lessons_; he had…

Valerie didn't look happy but didn't press further too. "Ok, fine. We'll do righteous. _Brilliant_." Someday he would really make an honest woman out of her. "So what we do _now_?"

"We continue with our research," he said adamantly, turning her around to shove her a little ahead toward the coach. "We will find out something then will take him out."

She huffed, dropping herself on the couch once again. Bruce went back to his seat, she picked one of thick folder on the floor where she had dropped down before and started again reading. "God, I really do feel like beating someone now."

Causally, eyes not diverted from his page, he commented, "You wouldn't really do a very good job of it."

Throwing the report in her hands aside, she exclaimed. "Excuse me?!"

"Your fighting technique."

"What about it?" she said, frowning.

He lifted his head up. "You don't have one."

She gave him a nasty glower. "If I didn't have such a _golden heart_ I'd bring to your attention that lack of technique punched you at the nose. But since I do, I won't."

Well, she had a point. She _did_ have a technique that included kicks, fists, _hair pulling_ with no trace of any respectable self-defense discipline, and very special brand of distractions. And she always played dirty. A thought, an idea surfaced out of his mind, dutifully he followed it. "But you played dirty that time."

She gave him a disappointed look. "Bruce, what makes you think I'd do anything else _but_?"

He stood up. "You're right. We have to play a little dirty."

She gave him another look; this time suspicious, attentive, and intrigued, all at once, "Meaning?"

"I assume you're familiar with the wild goose chase con?"

Her eyes sparkled as she _gasped_, "Oh, darling…" She shook her head. "You nevercease to amaze a girl."

His lips titled up to one of her cat-smug smirks and she was a little bit impressed then her gaze caught on her wrist and she saw the watch reading eight. She leaped on her feet. "Damn it," she exclaimed, "I totally forgot it."

Bruce gave her a look. "I beg your pardon?"

"It's Friday night," she said pointedly, hands gesturing.

Bruce kept looking at her baffled. She let out an exaggerated huff. "Friday night, Mr. Delmont, the opportunist caretaker…." She trailed off, punctuating her words with little shakes of head.

"Ah… _Him_."

"Yes, him," she bit off. She managed to reach the bottom of her profession, going on dates with gravediggers, and dammit, he wasn't even a proper one. "It seems your _girlfriend_ already got herself a date for tonight, Mr. Wayne," she snickered, turning to leave the room. "That wouldn't take long." She looked at him back over her shoulder then winked, "I'm on a roll these days."

* * *

The pub was poorly lit, timeworn, yet friendly. She settled herself at the corner of the bar. One arm perched at the back she ordered a Guinness and waited the caretaker come. She gave herself only one hour, only one then Ramirez would come. She sniffed with a laugh. She was really in a row these days, as evidently she didn't bother to scratch before making sure at least she could still two itches at once.

Laughing to herself silently, her gaze traveled around the pub, locating the exits, back door, and restroom with practiced instinct. She needed to talk Ramirez, hear what was going on around the GCPD circles and talked her into getting some rumors for Detective Sylar. Bruce said they would get his background files via Gordon, and he also seemed to hack his way into Gotham's finest so-called secure servers but she always knew it would never hurt to hear the gossip of rumor mills too.

Five minutes later, Delmont walked into and upon seeing her waiting at the bar a relieved smile appeared on his lips. She smiled back as he walked over her then she noticed the flower in his hand, one single rose inside a brown package. Dumbfounded she gazed at the flower then glanced up back at him. His smile grew even more. Oh, good lord…

Sitting next stool to her, he offered her the flower then greeted her with a small 'hi'. She took the flower and brought it toward her nose. "Hey yourself." She lifted her eyes up from the flower, her head still leaning down. "Thanks. You didn't need to."

He smiled wider, ordered himself a beer. She barely held the urge to roll her eyes. "So how's going with your research?" the caretaker asked.

"Would be better," she said, sighing and it wasn't an act. "I thought people might be interested but—"she eased off one shoulder, "I guess they aren't." She took a sip from her bottle and put it down. "I thought people might care. I mean graveyards—they are where we all going to end up, sooner or later."

"Not if you're to be cremated."

"Well, yes," she said, lifting up her shoulder again.

"I think I'd like to be cremated," he said then slowly. "Better than put into six feet under, waiting the rest of your… _unlife_."

"Hmm…burying also has its merits." She moved the bottle on the bar, eyes casted down. "Become one with earth, with universe," she paused, "with God—born into life again. Circle continues."

Delmont gave her a look. "Didn't take you as one of the naturalists, say to truth. All that 'God is me and I am God' bullshit."

She laughed, taking a big sip from her bottle. Goodness, she was here for a reason, not get into philosophical chit-chats with gravediggers.

"I'm not, oh, I'm really not." She gave him her best smile, and leaned forward, putting her hand above his. "Were you able to talk with Mr. Ray?"

He gave her a look, which she responded by caressing her thumb over his hand, her smile growing more roughish. "Yes," he breathed out, "He's waiting you next weekend."

"Next weekend?" Smile dropping, her fingers motions halted, she exclaimed, and said flatly, playing coy forgotten. "I can't wait that long."

"I'm sorry, this is what I could get." He pulled out his hand. "Ray could be so much mull headed. You're lucky that you got that as it is."

Coyness slipped in its place swiftly back as she smiled once again at him. "I know, I know. And I _can't_ thank you enough for that. It's just—just—"She looked straight at his eyes, her eyes getting moistened. "It's very important to me." She fed him a sub-story about graveyards and her deceased family and then kept him busy another half of hour for emergencies with the help of the stories during her non-existed journalism life before sending him away to wait for Ramirez.

Looking at her funnily, he left, kissing her on the cheek but she held his head with one hand and touched her lips on his briefly for an extra measure. "_Thank you._"

He left, his eyes gleaming and rolling her eyes at his retreating back, she cocked the bottle up, and finished the rest of beer in one swing. She finished another beer while waiting Ramirez, watched a play on TV absently.

So many things to consider; secrets to unbury, schemes to weave, plots to be pull, and like they weren't enough she'd got herself tangled to Bruce's other certain webs too, but no, _that_ wasn't work related, it was for fun. There was a line for her to be—considerate.

Suddenly a figurative light lit up in her mind, she straightened back, and smiled wide. Oh, oh, _oh_, she was really in a roll these days; couldn't bother to scratch without stilling, god, how many itches that made now…? Fifteen minutes later, Ramirez walked into the pub, haunted eyes spotting her at corner with the first step. The battered detective slid the next stool next to her and ordered herself a scotch.

Valerie took a sip from her beer, the third one, and looked at her. "Do you hear anything from Detective Sylar's case?"

Ramirez shook her head. "Heard only official explaining. Homicide leading the investigation," she said, taking the round glass bartender had shoved along the bar toward her. She gazed at the dark liquid. "The case was announced as theirs. The call had been made to them, they found the body, and—"she gave a shrug, "well, it's a murder."

"Related to old Major Squad's and it'll continue."

Ramirez shrugged again. "It's Homicide's."

"Rumor mills started to turn for Sylar?"

Ramirez took a big sip from her glass and grimaced. "Expectedly. But nothing related to the case. I checked his background too, clean as a baby—"

"And someone killed his father in a horrible way," Valerie interrupted her. "Probe a little around, will you? Let's hear about."

"Okay, but I thought the Commissioner already—"

"Yes, yes, but a little bit of gossip can't hurt anyone." She hopped down, "I smell secrets, Ramirez, dark secrets…" and turned to leave, "Will text you later."

When she returned, Bruce was still in the study, lost in some reports. She checked her watch. It had past ten in the night and she felt herself already getting exhausted, this late nights started to finally wear her down and it wasn't still time to call it a night. No, certainly not.

She sauntered into the room and dropped herself on the coach. "Missed me?" She lay her legs over and went on before he answered, not that he would. "I had a wonderful time, got even flowers. I'm waiting the same treatment from you too."

"Really, where are they?" Bruce asked, without lifting his head up.

"Wh—_oh!_" She looked at the ceiling then lifted a shoulder up. "Oh, well, forgot them at the bar." Bruce scoffed faintly as she exclaimed. "What am I supposed to _do_ with flowers anyway? Eat them?" she went on, rambling, "I'm not a fairy, can't eat petals. Anyways, we have another date with old Ray next weekend."

That brought his attention back to her. "Next weekend? That's too long."

She pointed a finger at him. "That was exactly what I told him too but it appears old Ray a little bit _too_ busy for pretty girls like me." She gave him a look. "I do wonder why."

"I searched him, he was clean."

"So was Cameron, Bruce," she pointed out and then gave another shrug. "Anyway, once we get ourselves in his cheerful company, we'll find out. Let's worry over the things at a time. In the meantime, I've discovered a way for you to pay up your debt to me—"He quirked his eyebrow to her, which she responded waving her hand airily and clarified, "for my part for helping you with your _dilemma_."

He grunted under his breath. "I should have known better."

Dropping her legs down, she leaned back. "Yes, Bruce, yes, you should have." She tilted her head to side. "Now, did you _really_ think that I'd let you go off the hook that easily?"

"No, I didn't," he answered flatly. "What do you want?"

She stood up, and started pacing around the room. "Something you mentioned once, something you find I'm… _lacking_," She faltered on her steps to pivot her body to side to give him a mocking grin before resuming her pacing. "It was actually your words that enlightened me, darling," she snickered further, catching the sight of fire irons beside the fireplace at the corner then turned to him fully. "You're going to teach me those self-defense disciplines you've been bragging about."

He narrowed his eyes, staring at her. "See, it's a win-win situation. You get a girlfriend, I get a teacher."

"You want me to teach you self-defense?" Bruce repeated.

She brought her hand forth, examined her nails. "You're very accomplished fighter. I'd be a fool to pass such an opportunity."

"Ok—okay," he breathed out, "I'll arrange some things when we're available."

"We're available now," she countered, dropping her hands off her sides, "We have at least a couple of hours to waste till you go out. I'm already kind of bored. Let's start now."

"Now?"

She moved closer to the fire place, "Why not?"

"Uh, okay, let's go to gym—"

She closed the distance between them with a sudden move, taking an iron beside the fireplace, threw a kick and swept his feet under him. With a thud, his back hit on the floor as he gaped at her. She stood beside his head and then pressed one foot down on his neck, lifting up the long club in her left hand. "Now," she pressed her foot at the side of his throat further, and he should be very glad that Marion wasn't into six inches heels. "Educate me on this: Why I'd want to get myself into a fight in a controlled environment while I can have quite interesting things like this—"She pressed _three inches _down harder, pointed the iron in the chest and poked him with its tip, "at my disposal?"

Bruce, glowering, caught her ankle on his throat as the other grabbed the iron and pushing it upwards he pulled her down. She yelped, falling down. Effortlessly he turned her around, and pinned under him. She fought back as his legs trapped hers, at the same time his hands braced hers at each side of her head.

"_Now,_ first: Always mind your surroundings." He tightened his fingers around her wrists and hit the hand holding the iron on the floor until she was forced to loosen her grip. Twisting her face with pain, she let go the club. "Second, don't get yourself in the close proximity of an opponent who is a much bigger and more potent than you." She tried to free her legs, in respond he tightened his further to emphasis his point. "Third, this is _not_ a fight."

She gave him a nasty look. "Then kindly let me off before I make some permanent damage to you."

His eyes glinted. "By all means, please do _try_."

Screw him being Batman. There were moves to break such a grip; she was vulnerable, yes, but so was he. She tried to raise a knee, toward his crotch, where a curious half-hardness bulking, of course, she'd noticed. Even if this act didn't work as good as she had hoped, and apparently it hadn't too, it had served at least to determinate one point. Bruce wasn't oblivious to her as much as he acted. Despite her current situation, that thought alone was merely enough to make her feeling victorious. She eased her muscles, rose one leg then pain erupted at her knee.

Bruce, hovering above her, pressed his knee over hers, in a way was making it hurting, very. "Not very subtle," he said, smirking down.

She hissed through her teeth, shaking her legs to get them free. He didn't bulk. She tried to get her hands free and in response he pressed them further on the floor, then she got really mad.

With a cry, she fought back, tried to throw his weight off her as he stayed motionless, immoveable, not moving an inch, waiting effortlessly her futile resistance cease. Getting more frustrated with his unshakable state and ease, and that damn smirk tugged at his lips, she decided to change the direction to something she knew better.

Suddenly she stilled, breathing out, and looked at him. She cocked her head to one side then _smiled_. "Getting a little bit heated up, are we?" She raised her hips to grind over his bulge, "Frankly, this is getting more educational than what I've thought."

He flinched back, she smiled wider then lifted her head to—kiss him, bite him? She wasn't particularly sure, maybe both. Yes, kiss first then bite, seemed like an awfully good plan. Before her lips found her target his forehead touched—no, hit hers, and pain erupted inside her skull. She cried out as her head and body dropped back, her eyes closing. "Still not subtle," he said.

Her eyes snapped open with that, and she yelled, "Did you just fucking head-butt me!"

"Distractions could only work if your opponent doesn't know your intentions," he commented matter-of-factly then went on, "Just a couple of seconds ago, you were only able to drop me because I was caught unguarded."

She smiled mockingly. "Must have wounded your manly pride, getting caught like that by lil' ol' me. Are you sure you'll get over it?"

His gaze flared up. "It was only because I don't see you as a _threat_."

"Do you know what happened to the last _idiot_ who made such a grievous mistake?"

"No."

"Do you want to know?"

"No."

"Let off me go."

"No," He briefly paused as she started to stir her body again. "Don't try to pull your legs free, plant the soles of your feet on the floor—"She looked at him funnily. "Do you want my help or not?"

She stayed motionless for a second and half, closed and reopened her eyes then finally planted her feet on the floor. "Raise your hips slightly," she did then started to wriggle once again as he tightened his grip on her legs, "stop wasting your energy, you'll only get tightened up further, don't make your opponent feel your intention—"

"I don't—"

"I can see right through you—"

"Are you planning to show me anything useful at all within this century?"

Suddenly he rolled them around. "Get in my position."

"My, the ordering type, you are," she murmured rolling her eyes but obeyed, straddled him and grabbed his wrists. She tightened both grips, dropped her weight over him. She'd managed to hold onto Ivakonovic for minutes in this position, well, he was drugged and well, the money launderer was _certainly_ not like Bruce Wayne but still if he thought he could get her easily off him, he was going to get—everything happened so fast. One moment she was atop, her grip tightening decisively then the next second her hands lost the contact with the floor and she was flipped around, ending up pinned under him again.

Her eyes widened comically as she stared at him. "I—I'm a lot more light weighted than you," she finally said.

"Weight is nothing if you know how to use momentum—"

"I know it," she bit off.

"You just wriggle out of your mind."

"Fine, I'm liste—oh, hi Alfred!" Flinching, he snapped his head back toward to door to look for the older man who was of course not there at all, and Valerie raised her knee up, kicked him, very hard, very, very hard, and then shoved him off her.

Laughing, she stood up. "Oh, that was really very educational." She looked down at him, and sighed with disappointment. "All too easy."

* * *

_A/N: Yes, the last part is silly, and unrealistic, and everything else, but you see those weren't enough to stop writing it :) None could drop 'Batman' down like that, but how else I was supposed to get Valerie under Bruce? And if you ask why Valerie was supposed to get under Bruce, I'd say...because I'm a shameless author? LOL! Those reasons that I mentioned in the first chapter were indeed very good ones not to put it online before._

_Hope you still enjoyed though._

_See y'all with the next one._


	16. Chapter 14

_A/N: The wild goose chase con is inspired by Leverage, they do those kind of stuff always, though the name belongs to me, I think. Gee, I'm not sure, say the truth. I totally might have read it somewhere too. _

**Chapter Fourteen:**

* * *

Slumped back in his seat in his office at Headquarters, the Homicide Chief Harvey Bullock gazed at the ceiling in hopes of finding anything slightly resembling a coffin, a dog and a man, but to no avail. Since the painting had been completed at the beginning of spring, his favorite sport had become a dull effort. Cursing mentally the fool that had decided to paint headquarters, he stared outside at the evening gloom, night was approaching. In a moment of self-delusion, he looked at the stars that were slowly starting to appear, trying to find a divine sign or something of a kind. A moment later, he turned in his chair and gave his attention back to what Pamela and Burke were saying. A divine intervention of any kind wouldn't likely show up tonight, they would have to keep sticking with the worldly ones, he thought, casting a glance above, cursing the police renovations yet again.

He turned further toward Pamela. The young woman had pulled her fiery red hair in a ponytail, there were shadows under her eyes, darkened circles, but her face bore a different kind of tranquility, like someone who had cried long and hard then suddenly ceased to and started to smile; gentle, mildly absent, and a bit sorrowful. He wondered briefly what was going on within her mind. He knew she was smart and passionate, but according to the psychological evaluations, she was socially awkward—whatever the hell was that supposed to mean. According to psychological evaluations, Bullock himself was a plain madman, a lost cause beyond hope, so he didn't see any reason to give them any notice.

He really wanted to have a drink, he thought absently. He'd given up drinking after the accident and had already started questioning that decision. He signaled Burke toward the small fridge at the corner before gesturing a box to Pamela.

Burke stood up as Pamela started. "The detergent box was sold to an area at the end of the city, between 87th Street and Galliard Tunnel." She paused to give a disapproving look at Burke's back. She'd never understood the concept of giving up drinking (from the place he came from a man was considered given up on drinking only when he gave up on 'whiskey') and he found it rather amusing it was what bothered her instead of her superior's drinking habits in the work times, not that beer of course could be counted as a drink. "They tore the barcode on the box so we couldn't pinpoint the exact location but from the production date and the day's batch we managed to determine an area."

He nodded, Burke handed him the beer and commented. "Charlie's making a team now to look at all the grocery stores in the area." The younger detective disturbed a spot with tip of his shoe, head bowed down. "That could take a while."

Bullock nodded then gazed at the ceiling and when he saw it spotless and stainless _again_, he stood up and waved his hand to Burke. "Find me a broom," he ordered.

Burke gaped at him openly as Pamela's eyes widened, and his hand waved once again, "A broom, quick." Quickly Burke sprinted out of the room and a moment later returned with the required item. Bullock took it, climbed onto his chair and started to peel the paint off the ceiling with a determined scowl on his face. Thirty seconds later, at the corner of where his chair was located an askew shape appeared. He tilted his head to the side and looked at it. From that angle, it could pass as a coffin. _Much better._ He waved his hand dismissively toward his detectives.

Burke and Pamela exited the room together, while Bullock slumped back in his chair, and rocked on its wheels, hands draped over its armrests. He gazed at the ceiling until his eyes watered, taking sips from his beer… little scratches ran along, trying to catch each other… He looked at them and a girl appeared, at the top of a building… his mind drifted away to a note he'd read… now it seemed far away… the girl opened her arms and threw herself down.

_Suicide hasn't got any point to glorify yet guests should know not to overstay their welcome, and what are we people in this world but guests? No one is responsible for my death so it might also be said that everyone is responsible. _

_Please, don't bother with flowers. _

_Be well._

* * *

The first plans were the best plans, Bruce thought, chiding himself. Why had he given up that path in the first place? His first objective had been pushing them into a corner until they made a mistake, and he had pushed them, hard…until he had taken another turn.

The wild-goose chase con's basics were very simple. If you couldn't find what you were looking for on your means, then you simply let them lead you to it.

"Okay," Valerie drawled, standing in front of a board she'd finally procured, a black board marker in her hand, and wrote with big letters Alexander Ivanokovic on it. "Now, isn't this much better?" she asked before continuing. "So what do we know about him?" She paused, circling the name, "other than him being a total waste of oxygen consumption…?"

"Not much," Bruce supplied, bitingly.

"Well, yes." She curled her lips down, writing money launderer beside his name. "Then allow me rephrase. What does _he_ know about us?"

"Nothing."

"Exactly," She pointed her marker at him, a grin playing on her lips. She drew an arrow down from the circle and wrote down Marilyn. "Ok, so let's play the Captain Obvious, shall we, we're getting very good at it. Someone pulled a long con on him, he must have already learned there was no Marilyn Sinclair at all, no trace of her and someone must have taken drastic measures for it. She drugged him in his bedroom, in his playground, and left him behind like a puddle but she didn't take anything at all, at least he doesn't know she did." He nodded, she continued. "He must be confused, and he's paranoid."

"If we could get him more confused, he'll feel threatened," Bruce said, "enough to check on _all_ of his valuables."

"Bruce, really, when we're bad, we're the best," she intoned, playfully flashing a big smile.

He gave her a look. "There will be no 'we' involved here. You're staying here."

"What?"

"I'll pull this alone."

"You need me," she countered.

"Yes, _here_."

She crossed her arms under her breasts. "I—"

"Don't." He warned her placidly as she glowered at him. "This discussion is already over. You stay here." She'd started to be in the middle of the _things_ more than 'a bit', now it was time for her to be back off.

She opened her mouth but he interrupted her even before she could say anything. "_Don't_. I'm going to Puerto Rico by the usual methods this time and you don't still have an ID." He paused, frowning. "And _please_, decide on something."

"I will, stop pestering me," she snapped back.

"Then do it fast," Bruce ordered. "It's not like it's the first time anyways."

With a nasty glare, she threw the marker at him before leaving the room.

* * *

James Gordon checked his watch while waiting on a rooftop his secret _ally_ for tonight's impromptu meeting. The watch read ten past ten, telling him he'd missed yet another planned dinner with his family. Putting Barbara's sure-to-be complaints to the back of his mind, his gaze traveled down. They, Barbara and him, had started to talk about complaints over complaints lately and he wondered if the end was approaching. Last year had been hard for everyone and sometimes he wondered if Barbs blamed him for what had happened, not that she would ever come out and say it aloud, but the meanings were there, even when tongues didn't utter the words.

Perhaps, perhaps, he would just go home, he thought for a second, his heart tightening in his chest. Barb was fighting, he knew it as he knew Batman would continue to fight no matter what, and he should fight too, at least he should try… yet his feet didn't move, resting planted, rooted in the cemented floor. Maybe, maybe he was blaming himself too, wishing for a punishment, honestly he didn't know anymore.

He lifted his head up, looking at the sky, trying to find the misty companion of the metallic wash over the sky—now gone for a year. Below the cityscape was the color of dirt; mud-brown plaster on the walls, oily puddles filled the potholes in the street; a rusted old car of a brand he couldn't name parked along the curb. Ahead lay a grim block of flats that had been built decades ago for the workers in a nearby old leather factory; now they were urban ruins inhabited by only immigrants, squatters, and a few aging Gothamites who were too dazed or demoralized to move. The smell coming from every direction was garlic, spice, sweat, dirt, and an intense old leather scent mixed with despair, neglect, and grief.

How fitting, he thought bitterly.

Without notice, Batman emerged out of shadows, no, extended out of shadows, bringing his own and Gordon thought once again how fitting it all was. "I've still got nothing new on the case," he said gloomily, "This seemed a little urgent."

"I need you to find me a body."

He stared at the Dark Knight. He was accustomed to hearing uncommon demands from their dark guardian but this seemed a bit too much even for him.

"As in… a dead one…?"

"Yes," he rasped out bluntly. "Can you manage that?"

The look of astonishment on his face grew wider. First an unused identity and now a body… Gordon grimaced. "What are you playing at?"

"A deception," Batman rasped out before turning back to mush into shadows.

Bruce slanted a look at Valerie who sat on the couch, crossed-legged, with countless sheets of paper surrounding her, and torn packages of junk food scattered over them as she helped herself to a second package of Twinkies. She must really be grateful to her fast metabolism, Bruce thought absently, bowing his head down, returning to his research. A small piece of cake with icing fell over her wrist, and lifting her hand up, she brought it toward her lips. With the corner of his eye Bruce caught sight of her tongue poking out to catch the icing before turning his attention back to the plans in his hands once again.

"Tell me more about that plan of yours," she demanded, lifting her eyes to him, her lips still sucking the skin at her wrist. He lifted his head up, ignored the scene and gave a lifted eyebrow at her tone. "Please?" she quickly added.

"We've already been over it, twice."

"I still think there still some progress that needs to be made."

"Such as…?"

"Like a sidekick."

"Allow me to tell you for the last time," Bruce said firmly, his tone edged with annoyance. "You stay here."

She stood up, "I still don't understand—"

"You still stay."

"That was my idea in the first place."

"Valerie, cut it out."

She threw herself on the couch, growling out, her face flushed with anger. "You certainly know how to make a girl all hot and bothered," she hissed out. He turned back to the paper he'd been reading. She walked toward him and knelt before his knees. She put her hand over his knee, briefly touching him then looked at him with wide-set-open eyes, "Then at least let me come with you."

Fooled once shame on her; fooled twice shame on gritted his teeth in frustration, and sending a warning glare, he pushed her hand away. "Not going to work, so drop the act."

Her face soured upon his words, and she stood up, "Fine, be a dickhead." She returned to the couch. "Once Ivanokovic's got you at the balls, you'll wish you'd listen to me."

"Getting me angry won't work either," he remarked. "You're still staying."

"You know, I'm putting my head on the line over it," she said then conversationally, "if this doesn't work, I'll be exposed."

Bruce sighed. "It will work." He paused for a second, "but if you have second thoughts—"

"I don't have second thoughts," she quickly responded, "but I want to be involved—"

"You're already involved," he grimaced, "more than you should be."

She grimaced back, opened her mouth to reply but he didn't let her. "I won't let it come to that. When this is over, no one will ever think of Marilyn Sinclair again."

"Don't talk like that," she chided half-playfully, half-serious, "she was a real sweetheart."

* * *

Driving to the Galliard Tunnel at the end of Gotham City Police Department's precinct, Pamela felt herself taking a big breath out as she realized something. Essentially the whole city was an enormous coffin that all the people were buried alive in. The only thing that was different was the dimensions but the feeling was more or less similar. When the air reserved for you ran out you simply died and then they buried you again, only this time somewhere else.

Pamela hadn't been exactly sure what she'd expected when she'd enrolled in the Police Academy after she'd dropped out of college and but she was sure this wasn't what she had hoped for. No, that wasn't exactly true either, she hadn't exactly been hoping for anything, she only had wanted to do something, to try to change something, _anything_… or else… She turned her mind from the direction it was heading and focused on the car, which Burke was parking along the curb to check the third address in her notebook for the box.

The whole neighborhood was a typical immigrant zone, Latinos going on about their business, and hesitating when they saw two cops walking, as cops always meant bad news in these parts of the city. Ignoring the curious looks they were receiving, Burke started to walk toward the small grocery store.

A young man, around eighteen, was carrying some boxes into the store, and upon seeing them, he threw the boxes down and started to run. Cursing, Burke ran after him as Pamela followed on his tail. They chased the boy until to the end of the street where he was trying to climb a metal fence. Burke caught him at his ankles and pulled him down.

"You motherfucker," he slammed the boy against the fence.

"No, I good—"

"Who bought the box? What do you know?" Burke asked, the boy looked at him frightened. Burke tightened his grip. "Speak!"

"I—"he sputtered out, "no understand."

"Who took the box?"

"I—"

Pamela took Burke's hand. "Let him go, he doesn't understand you." She looked at the teen. "Why did you run?" she asked slowly, fingers making a running gesture.

"You police—"

"And you don't have permits," Pamela turned to Burke who let the young man go, cursing.

He started to cry and plead, "Por favor, por favor…I did no bad…I did no bad."

Burke took a step back, shook his head. "Ok, mate, stop," he put his hand on the young man's shoulder, trying to get him at ease. "We won't rat you to ICE. 'kay? Got it?" He shook his hand. "No ICE."

The young man picked up ICE at the first mention, of course. He nodded. "But you have to _help_ us." Pamela continued, pointing to herself. He nodded again. They returned to the grocery store, the boy immigrant between them. Pamela walked into the grocery store, call for the owner. A Latin man in early forties came from the back, looked at them and understood what was happening less than three seconds. There was something telling about a cop that these people knew at first sight, regardless what division they were from. Pamela had first thought it intriguing, now it seemed fitting.

"We need to talk to you, we are not here for him, nor for you," he added after a second.

The owner nodded. "Two weeks ago, some people must have bought a detergent box from you—"

The owner shook his head. "We don't sell boxes."

Burke sent him a glower. "Ask the boy if he gave anyone a box two weeks ago, a detergent box."

The owner did with heavy Spanish, the words coming loudly, the boy looked like he was thinking, his face crinkled with effort then it brightened up. "Si…" was the first syllable Pamela recognized. "Who? Ask how they looked." Burke asked immediately.

He did, the young boy answered quickly, the owner translating simultaneously, "He said a man came, asked for a box, he looked normal, only he was chewing a gum and he said there was also another waiting in the car."

"What kind of a car, a white pick-up?"

They talked to each other then they saw the boy nodding his head.

Burke cursed. "The other man in the car?" Pamela asked.

The owner asked. "He didn't see."

"What?" Burke bellow out, as Pamela questioned, "How did he know about the other man, then?"

"He heard a trunk closing while the man was here."

Burke grunted under his breath. "Is there anything else?"

He shook his head. "We need to get him to HQ for his statement and to get a sketch."

As the owner translated, the boy started to shake his head furiously, "No—por favor no…No police…." The owner turned to them. "He didn't see anything clearly and already told you all he saw." Burke frowned. The owner looked at them. "He's got a sick mother," he then repeated, "He didn't see anything."

"The guy he saw could possibly be the one called Bubble Yum," Pamela mused out loud.

Burke huffed with anger.

"He said you said No ICE," the owner said then.

"Kay, kay' he stays," he grunted. "Sick mothers and children, all the time the same… fucking convenient," he grunted again. "He stays but I want him stay put. I want to find him whenever I look for him." He walked toward the exit. "Don't make me regret my decision."

He walked out, Pamela followed him. They walked back to their car in silence. Pamela got in the car, fastened the seat belt. "We did the right thing," she said aloud, but she wasn't sure who she was trying to convince.

Burke just grunted again.

"Your theories," she said then, staring ahead, "about them burying people in excavation sites."

"Yes?"

"We should look for digs," she answered as Burke started the car. "They must open them beforehand. If we find one, we'll know where he'll strike next."

Burke let out a grunt-sigh, "It'd take a lot… You know how it is with this city nowadays."

* * *

Nothing about Old Ray had changed over one week; he seemed like ever; ancient, thin, wrinkled, his craggy face resembled much like the craggy graveyard. He opened the door of his small cot with the same scowl on his brows as Valerie's bright smile got blocked once again by the appearance of it.

He was a stubborn old man, but so was she. She smiled once again, offering her hand. "Mr. Ray, I'm so glad you've agreed to meet us—"

"Come on in," he said, sending her a disapproving glare. "You young people always are dashing off."

Valerie smiled shyly, bowing her head. She walked in, Bruce followed her. Inside the old man settled them on two hard wooden chairs as he sat on one solo armchair. His shaky hands picked up a tobacco pouch and rolled up a joint with callous palms with good scraping work. He lit it with shaking hands and took out a deep puff. "Wanna some?"

"No, _we_ don't," Bruce answered hastily as Valerie leaned forward eagerly.

She shot Bruce a look and sniffed. "Cannabis, good quality," she tilted her head, "Where do you buy it?"

"I buy from no bastard," the old man snapped back, sending her another glare. "I grow them at my backside," he waved his hand outside, "when winter comes, I put them inside." He waved his hands again toward the little pots below the windows.

Valerie nodded, her gaze traveled around then she fixed her eyes on the windows and ahead where the graveyard laid. She poked Bruce with her elbow slightly. Bruce followed her gaze and spotted outside, just below the windows two wooden coffins, very similar to the coffins the killer had used.

Valerie turned her eyes to him. "Expecting new arrivals?" she asked, her head pointing the coffins outside.

"I got a call this morning," he answered shrugging. "They found a body in the river last night."

"Every day comes one?"

"Not in the summer," he dragged out one breath of his joint. "But in winter they come more." She frowned. "Cold," the old man continued, as if he was just talking about _weather_, "Homeless freeze in the winter a lot."

Valerie nodded. "Do you open graves yourself?"

"Yes," he sighed, "Papa showed me—"

"The coffins, you prepare them too?" Bruce asked.

"He was a great gravedigger," he continued as if Bruce hadn't interrupted him. "Actually he'd started to work with ordinary cemeteries but when the director had caught him drinking at nights he was sent to Homeless. Great man, in year '79, when he died, had opened five thousands graves till his back turned staff from calcification and given up the job. I took over him."

He took another breath, puffed out its smoke, Bruce didn't interrupt him this time as he understood he would only tell them what he would like to and they needed to maneuver him to their topics of interest.

"This job had a dignity back in days," he sighed loudly, his joint finishing. "Now they open graves with backhoes, hundreds of them at once," he spat. "No dignity at all."

"I guess there aren't much people who know how to open graves anymore?" Valerie asked causally, eyes searching.

The old man shook his head. "All those who call themselves caretakers—"he spitted out again. "They couldn't even get six feet under correct. The machines came, the operators became caretakers."

"The coffins," Bruce asked again, "You make the coffins yourself too?"

"Sometimes," he answered, "when I feel like. Usually I don't need to. City Hall brings the dead with its own coffin. They give a heed before they bring new one anyway. They give a call to say how many digs they would need. I make the work from morning. Cops are last-minuters, they bring dead, then say 'come on old man, that's enough.' They can't have patience, they can't wait. I open graves standards; six feet under, by 2.5 feet by 7 feet. They can't let me finish. If you don't dig within quotas, in winter with first rain the dead would come up, papa always said, then the dead would be at your neck at the afterlife."

He paused a little. "There are others too, men in black. They occasionally drop people too. They always come after midnight, do their stuff themselves and left. They don't talk, I don't ask."

"The mob?" Bruce inquired.

His old gaze turned away. "I don't know what you're talking about." And all of them knew it was a lie.

"Coffins," Bruce asked again. "Is there anyone who bought coffin from you?"

He narrowed his eyes. "Why do you ask these questions?"

Valerie sighed, stood up, and crouched in front of the old man. The caretaker seemed to be taken aback from the intimidate gesture. He looked at her face. "Ray, I'm not a reporter and he's not a photographer. Did you hear anything about the killing in Puckett Square Park?"

"I don't read rags," he said, his grimace grew wider. "Who the fuck are you?"

"Someone buried a man," she paused, "with a coffin resembling very much just the ones we've seen outside."

"Are you cops?"

"We're—"she paused again, "a concerned third party."

The old man stayed in silence. Valerie tried again. "Ray, he was around your age and he put him inside a coffin _alive_ and we have reasons to believe he'll continue to do so."

"Two men came last month," the old man said then slowly, brows furrowing, "Asked coffins."

Valerie stood up. "Did they say why?"

"No," he shook his head.

"You didn't _ask_?" Bruce asked incredulously.

"No," he shrugged back. "They said they needed a favor. They came with a white pick-up." Bruce closed his eyes as Valerie drew a sharp breath out. "We sat, talk, and shared a joint together. They seemed nice. They brought also wine," he pointed three wooden cases at the left corner of the room, two already empty.

"How they looked like?"

"Normal," he said, "one was chewing a gum whole time."

"How many," Bruce rasped with a low voice, "how many coffins did they take?"

"Three."

* * *

Lucky Luke came to the Professor's office on his time again, twenty minutes earlier. The merry routine continued, the secretary offered him coffee, one sugar no cream, he dutifully waited till the professor arriving on the right time. His gaze traveled around the room, he checked the little bird in his cage. He stood up, went to play with it. His forefinger tapped the bars of his cage, the blue bird gazed at him thoughtfully at his perch. "Lovebirds…" he softly said.

"Yes," the secretary said back simply, while furiously texting on her cell. There was a mighty scowl on her brows, which made her more appealing than usual.

"I believe lovebirds are meant to be in couple," he commented, trailing his finger along the bar slowly. "Where is his other significant half?"

"Died a couple of days ago, I guess—" she said, head still not lifting up. "Professor let her escape while cleaning the cage. I always tell her let me do it but she always decline." She sighed, her eyes bearing the tint of incomprehension. "The birdie was still here the last time you were here, you didn't probably notice—"She couldn't complete her words because the Professor had just walked into that time. She threw her cell phone down hastily, went to meet her. She took her briefcase as the blond woman turned aside to greet him.

The Professor looked same too, not like a professor with her lack of glasses and neat suits. He wished she'd started to dress properly to her profession. There was something so profoundly disturbing with seeing well-known facts were disregarded so fundamentally by some people.

"Ah, welcome back," she said, smiling. "I was afraid you wouldn't show up also today."

He smiled a little, walking toward his room. "I was…occupied," he said as she closed the door behind them.

He sat on the armchair, the Professor settled on her seat opposite of his. "How?"

"Something happened in the last days," he replied, leaning backward, "I wanted to be sure before I come back."

"Are you," the Professor asked, "Are you sure now then?"

Lucky Luke smiled a little smile. "Did I come back, didn't I?"

The Professor twirled her Parker around her fingers. "Do you want to talk about this 'something'?"

Lucky Luke looked thoughtful before he answered simply. "No."

"What do you want to talk about then?"

"I don't know," he shrugged back, putting an unlit Lucky Strike at the corner of his lips. "What were we talking about the last time?"

"About your last job. You said they'd sacked you." She paused. "You want to talk about that?"

"Why not?"

"A similar story again?"

"Yes," Lucky Luke replied, his gaze locked on her, "the passion in the selfish people for domestic animals."

X

The team of the Supervisor consisted of three people; one Boy and the other two had no significant personalities. All three were in the molding team and this afternoon they were going to start molding another Harvey Dent nose. There was always something going bad with the late DA's nose, some way or another it always ended up nothing like the original one but they had managed to mold it quite nicely the last time and Signora Andrea had personally come down to congratulate the Supervisor for his excellent job.

The Supervisor was an engineer cause molding although no one seemed to believe it, was an technical process that required a well thought engineering process, and even if he wasn't a good engineer The Supervisor was a good observant, and even better at seizing opportunities; one look at Boy, college drop-out, military kick-out, he saw and seized it, and he hadn't been mistaken, he rarely was with these matters anyway. There was a good reason why the Supervisor was a supervisor anyway.

Sipping from a Starbuck coffee, one of his teammates waved his hand back and forth in the open air and grumbled to Boy. "Crush that thing off," his waving hand pointed the Lucky Strike between his fingers. "And if you have to smoke at least smoke something cooler."

Boy threw him a side glance. "Luckies are cool."

"Yeah," his co-worker laughed dryly, "If you live in Mad Men."

The other joined him laughing and inquired, "Why do you keep smoking it anyway? Go with something more showing, you have money and such now after all."

He sighed briefly. The concerns of the people who hadn't a personality significant were so similar to each other, it was almost depressing. "It's an old habit," he said at last dismissively.

"When did you get into?" Ah, inquisition posing as if they wanted to know because they cared. He smiled a little. "Around seven-or-eight; my foster parents used to smoke Luckies, I picked up the habit from them while snooping off."

They looked at each other and then nodded stirring on their seats. Again, insignificant personalities. They went back to their offices and waited to the Supervisor come –they were waiting for a small meeting for this afternoon's molding attempt, the Supervisor was really bent on to prove the last success hadn't been just a lucky strike. They fell back into familiar bitching about the Supervisor, those two were engineers too and in their opinions the Supervisor was complete and utter waste of labor force. Boy tuned all the chatter out, poked with one finger the sea turtle of the Supervisor in its wide, broad and flat bowl. The creature didn't move and Boy wasn't surprised, he knew it belonged to a kind which moved an inch or so once a month.

One of the engineers changing the subject, as if he was suddenly bored with bitching and yammering, said conversationally, "Man, you should see, she took all of my problems away." Oddly enough he wasn't talking about a bitch he'd gone to see, he was rather boasting about _the therapist_ he was seeing, not the first time either, because somehow he'd convinced himself seeing a therapist was a cool thing. He turned to Boy. "Drop her some time too." He handed him one of her cards. "Who knows? It'd come good even to you."

Boy looked at the business card, read Professor Quinzel's name over it in fancy writing. He shoved it inside his back pocket. The Supervisor came ten minutes later.

X

When the meeting had come to an end, there were two engineers, one college drop-out/military kick-out worker, one Supervisor, but no sea turtle.

The Supervisor opened his arms to both side, "All right, people, a good joke," he said, forcing out a laugh. "A social comportment, a presentable deed, we had _laughs_ _and_ _fun,_" he spitted out the last parts forcefully, "but it's enough."

The other two engineers were in 'we don't know what you're talking about, boss,' mode as Boy kept his silence. The Supervisor primarily had been suspicious of the other two; Boy wasn't a type who would do such pranks besides he needed him to mold a new nose to perfection.

Boy stayed in silence. At the end, the Supervisor sent the other two away, they left alone.

"Look," the Supervisor said, bringing his voice to a friendly tone. "You know I like you."

Both knew it was a lie. "Yes, I do."

"Just yesterday I was talking to Signora about you. I said you're such a brilliant young boy, has some bright future ahead." He paused for a second, the implications clear in his words. "Now tell me, did you take Donatello? Speak, man, speak! Why are you remaining silent? Speak, you bastard!"

He didn't.

* * *

_A/N: The next chapter Boy strikes again!_


	17. Chapter 15

_A/N: The first passage at the beginning a direct adaption from Body of Lies. I wanted to do something like this for the story, couldn't come with a proper one, then I thought, what the hell, I'll just 'rip it off' for my purposes._

_And attention, this chapter is where Valerie finally begins snapping. The ending of this chapter was one the first things I wrote even before I started to write properly the story, and it's inspired by a fanfic I read long ago for Daniel and Vala._

**Chapter Fifteen:**

* * *

Nearly a week passed before Gordon found the right body for Bruce's very particular requirements: A white male, approximately six feet tall, early middle aged, muscular enough to be believable as a case officer, but not so muscle-bound that he looked like a trigger-puller. He must have no obvious signs of disease or other marks. And no bullet wounds, either. That would make it too complicated later.

Six days later the Commissioner gave him a call on the special line, and informed him flatly that his package was ready. He didn't ask how, or who the body had belonged to, he figured he didn't want to know.

It took another two days to manage the logistics of having the body transferred to the cave, and exactly one week and one day after his meeting with Gordon, they were standing in the middle of his infirmary, where the dead body lay on a long metal gurney, and the temperature of the area had been arranged to avoid decomposing.

Valerie pulled the hem of her jacket down, and hugged herself wearily, bags visible under her eyes. "Do you think we should feel bad about what we're doing?"

"Yes," Bruce answered evenly. "Very."

"Poor fellow," she said slowly, "Even in death people are using him." She paused. "Well, at least he serves a greater purpose now."

"I'll return his body, Valerie," Bruce said flatly.

She shrugged, "Yeah, sure thing."

He gave her a warning glare, to which she shrugged again. He'd been determinately in a fool mood after they'd returned back from old Ray, had prompted Fox to get the sonar thing ready ASAP, had made Alfred and her read every _single_ eyewitness report, countless sheets of paper, while he dealt with the body.

Three coffins…three coffins…passed over her mind momentarily as she pushed it back forcefully. They were doing their best, more than their best actually, as she felt she was about to collapse from weariness. For a moment, she was almost glad that he hadn't caved in about bringing her along to Puerto Rico, almost.

She looked back down at the body. The man was a John Doe who had been found dead the previous day in a town near Star City, had no known relatives to make a fuss, and could be passed as physically fit, brown-haired, disease and/or mark free, man in his middle thirties. Over all, John Doe's corpse wasn't perfect, but it was close enough. His upper body was muscular enough—Bruce guessed he was, or had been a thug once—although the tummy had begun to sag, and he had a bald spot on the crown of his head. It turned out that he had one toe shorter than others.

Valerie deemed him perfect and the more Bruce thought of the imperfections, the more he liked them. They were real, human details that would make the deception at large believable. Perfect artifice includes mistakes; that was what Valerie had said.

To this corpse, they attached a legend. Valerie provided the name, of course, and on the first night with their lifeless guest in the cave, the John Doe became Jonathan Davis. They rented an apartment for Jonathan Davis in Puerto Rico through a dummy corporation Bruce had founded two years ago that had never been used, and rented a car, nothing too fancy, a dark gray Ford Focus. Using the pictures of the dead man that Fox had digitally altered, they obtained a Commonwealth of Virginia license, and then a passport, and the necessary visas and seals. Jonathan's cover job was with ICE's offices in Puerto Rico, so Valerie manufactured a decent looking ICE identification card. They made up business cards too, with Jonathan's private phone extension. It had the right prefix, but when you rang the number, the recording sounded hollow, as it was transferred back and forth around the globe using Wayne satellites. It was easy stuff, no more than any Intelligence agency usually did in building an integrated cover. Then it came time to make Jonathan Davis a real person.

Jonathan needed clothes, so one morning Valerie went on a shopping trip, and purchased suitable clothing for the fabricated life of Mr. Davis. Stylish, but also safe, as after a long debate over several different agencies, they'd decided Jonathan was from Interpol. So Mr. Davis ended up being a rising officer in the International Crime Rings Division, a mid-career guy trying to make his mark—a guy with smarts who had enough ambition and ruthlessness to step up the ladder.

They didn't know yet exactly where the body would end up in Puerto Rico, but it would probably be somewhere along the northern frontier, close to the capital where Ivanokovic was settled. Valerie bought the appropriate clothing for the climate and a pair of rubber-soled shoes that would be suitable for trekking and city-wear. Alfred washed the clothes several time—without neglecting to add a few meaningful comments—until the sheen was gone, but the shoes had proven to be a problem. They looked too new even after they had been deliberately scuffed. Shoes needed to feel as if there were feet in them. Valerie first suggested to go with one of Bruce's causal foot wear and then decided against it. Armani wasn't something Jonathan could afford for his daily attire. So Bruce wore the shoes with two pairs of socks for two days, only taking them off when it was time to patrol the city.

Alfred looked like he thought both of them lost their minds.

Then Valerie started building a detailed back story for the guy while they sat around the small table in his study. She demanded he was to be divorced claiming it was the one biographical detail anyone would assume about any kind of Intelligence officer—which party dumped the other was irrelevant. He was divorced, and now was screwing around. To suggest the divorce, Valerie drafted a letter from an imaginary lawyer representing an imaginary ex-wife, 'Lara', directing him to send his alimony payments to a new address and warning him not to contact Lara in person. Then she decided Jonathan needed a girlfriend, so she arranged some messages on the cell phone they had procured, and wrote two messages, sexy and sassy, one just 'bed is cold without u.' The other said, 'baby come back. i miss u 2 much. xx00. dee' Dee stood for Denise, this time it was Bruce who suggested the name, and Valerie acceded. She then thought he should have a condom in his wallet, to suggest that maybe he was getting a little on the side when the opportunity struck.

The cell phone was a challenge, but Fox arranged it to all of their requirements, with a raised eyebrow. They programmed in Denise's number, and the headquarter's number at ICE, and then they added several other numbers too, a girl named Sheila, and another one, Rusty. They acquired those lines too, and directed them with satellite. Everything in this deceit could easily be followed into a dead end with one-or two days research, but Bruce didn't pay any mind to it, even just a few hours would be enough.

When it came to filling Jonathan's pockets with stuff, Bruce had a stroke of brilliancy; along with change, keys, long forgotten parking receipts, and one dry cleaning bill, he added an iPod, and downloaded learn-to-speak Russian lessons. Valerie nodded approvingly, her expression impressed. That was exactly one of the things any ambitious self-improving American case officer would do—so earnestly, and annoyingly American.

Now it was the time to tie Marilyn Sinclair to Jonathan Davis. They would add the finishing touches later; at the last minute—the documents Jonathan Davis would be carrying on him, to his contact in Puerto Rico, documents related to Marilyn Sinclair, with all the fabricated facts they had arranged for Marilyn; photos, the website, cables, and the information they'd pulled off Ivanokovic's hard drive. It would explode like virtual time bombs as they made their way through the surveillance that Bruce was sure Ivanakovic had set up; the evidence that his delicate network had been breached.

* * *

The call had come abruptly from one of the officers his people had bribed in the City Hall morgue, and the information was sent to him before anyone knew what happened. His men had already transferred the body to a disclosed location as Alexander Ivakonokovic drove toward it, meticulously working every detail over in his mind.

By nature, Alexander was a curious man, a skeptic. And those attributes had served him quite well so far, as in his line of work naiveté and trust couldn't get anyone near to where he stood now. Shifting in the backseat of his limo, he took a bunch of papers out, his other hand still holding his scotch. He flipped through the documents he had recently acquired, and picked up the sketch he had had an artist draw for him weeks ago. Up to a few hours ago, this black-and-white charcoal was all he had had for this beautiful woman, eyes glinting feral, lips quirked up always with some nasty joke only she could get. Blast him, if he hadn't been curious. Angry for being played, very concerned with latest happenings, and despite of these pestilent facts, still very, very aroused.

_Marilyn Sinclair._ He would really like to see her again.

He cursed in Russian, his fingers tightening around his glass.

The limo was going over the asphalt smoothly, like gliding over an invisible delicate railway system, the drink in his hand didn't even shake with its motions. The safe house was stationed outside of the Capital, and gazing outside he saw he had still a half hour before they arrived at their destination. He looked at the sketch again. The woman had been sent to his company for a specific purpose, that had finally become clear.

Interpol, Interpol was sniffing after him.

Perched on the edge of a rooftop in Puerto Rico, clad in black skin-tight spandex, Bruce waited for Ivanokovic's vehicle to arrive at the spot he had chosen to set his trap, his left hand holding a ski mask. In all honesty, he didn't need to wait for the full hour for the money launderer to show up; it was the shortest and most deserted road to their safe house, still, Bruce wouldn't take any chances. After tonight, Alexander Ivanokovic would _not_ be a problem.

"He's coming," Valerie's voice sounded loud and clear in his ear. "Are you ready?"

"Yes," he rasped out, and brought the snow mask up, "Prepare to trace all the bank accounts, and flag Fox."

"Done."

A second later, he saw the limo approaching, he lowered the ski mask on his forehead down. He fished out the remote control from his tool belt, pulled out the antenna and waited till the limo passed over the point where his trap lied, then pressed down on the red button.

There was a loud clash down in the street below as the limo's tires blew out, it lost momentum, straying out of the path and hit a wall nearby. He took the ordinary way out this time, climbed on the fire exit and jumped down where the stairs finished a couple of feet above. He went directly towards the vehicle, first checked the chauffeur to find out he had knocked out by the crash, and picking up his pulse, he went backseat. He pulled Ivanokovic out by gripping him at his throat and propped him against the wall. Ivanokovic kicked his legs as Bruce tightened his grip.

"What's your deal with this woman," he asked with a strong Russian accent, shoving a picture of Marilyn at his face. "How do you know her?"

Ivanokovic spitted out of his throat, "Sh—she found me."

"When?"

"One month ago."

"Why?"

He stayed in silence. Bruce tightened his hand around his windpipe further, and growled out. "_SPEAK!_"

"She was sent to me as an escort."

"Do you know she's Interpol?"

Ivanokovic's eyes found his behind his mask, and he hissed out. "I believe it's a common knowledge now." He coughed, "Who are you?"

"A concerned third party," he answered before strangled him into unconsciousness.

* * *

Fifteen minutes after Bruce was in the operation base, a bunker he'd found along the coast. He pulled out the snow mask over his face, jogging beside his computer. "Are you monitoring the accounts?"

"Yes," Valerie replied without missing a beat. "No movements yet." He felt her grimace over the line. "Are you sure it's gonna work?"

"He's confused," Bruce answered flatly. "And scared, he'll need to check on his _valuables_."

Valerie was in silence for ten minutes as he tidied up the bunker to leave the perimeters then her agitated voice came up, "Finally," she exclaimed. "The bank accounts have started transacting."

"Trace them."

"Already doing," she said with a scowl in her tone. "Stop ordering me the obvious." He didn't answer back that, kept his silence, then she spoke with a clear voice, "three of them seem to directing to one single account, in—"She waited for a second, "Bahamas, an off-shore account, I'm sending the data to Fox."

"Good," Bruce commented. "Send them to Interpol too. All the information we have. I want him out at the end of this night."

"Bruce," Valerie called him hesitantly. "Are you sure this is a logical action? The Irish will tighten up his security."

"We've been all over it before." He picked up his backpack, stuffed the macharinary in the bunker inside. "And it's not the best time to discuss it again."

"Still—"

"The Irish will get cornered more when he lost his launderer, and we need Ivanokovic out for good." He paused. "I _won't_ have him looking after you." And he needed to focus all of his energy on the killer. His attention was already split up much. He needed to focus on. _Three coffins._

"Well, when you put it that way, every time it makes sense."

"Because it makes sense."

"Yeah, whatever," she said causally, as he sensed her lifting a shoulder up in her particular devil may care attitude. "Bring me something nice from Puerto Rico, will you?"

"I don't exactly time for gift sh—"

"Oh, no," Valerie exclaimed, "not now."

"What's happening?"

She stayed in silence, as Bruce growled out again. "Valerie, what's happening?"

"A very bad thing," she muttered darkly, "Homicide just got another call. He's stroke again."

* * *

Bruce stood up where he was, closing his eyes, breathing out. He opened them after half an second later, resumed his packing up. "Contact Fox," he ordered. "See if the sonar is ready."

Thirty seconds later, Valerie was speaking to him again. "Negative."

He drew out a sharp breath, growled his chest out with frustration, his hand fisted along the remote control he was stuffed into, he threw out to the far wall, and watched it as breaking down. "Bruce?" Valerie inquired hesitantly.

He remained silent, drawing in another breath. "Try to gather what's happening. Did you hear the call?"

"Yes," she hesitated again before continuing, "He said _a mother_ this time."

"Fuck it," Bruce cursed for the first time Valerie had been in his company. "Tell Alfred to ready the jet for my return ASAP. I'm heading back to the airport."

"He's already on it," she answered back, "I have an idea."

Bruce paused on his steps. "No."

"How can you say 'no' even before you heard it?"

"Your idea will be surely anything other than sitting in the cave, so the answer is 'no.'"

"I'm all blind here without you," she argued, her voice raising a note then she softened her tone. "He buried her in Washington Park. Do you remember the debate Homicide was having with one of the executives of the Office of something—something in Puckett Park? They had made a fuss about digging in an excavation site, and there was an unfinished sculpture in the park. The same designer's team is working in Washington too. I just checked it. I can cover as an executive, no one would know."

"No," was still Bruce's only answer.

"I guarantee you I have no desires to play the hero." She paused for a second. "We need to know what's happening in that park, Bruce." He still stayed silent. She let out a sigh. "Your…concern is baseless. I'll be surrendered by all Gotham PD."

Bruce kept his silence for a little while then asked suspiciously, "The park must be already secured taped. How are you going to make into?"

"Doing what a demanding, arrogant Italian bitch would do," she answered a shrug obvious in her tone. "I'll walk by."

"What do you exactly plan to say when they ask from where you heard it?"

"Bruce, didn't I say I have a plan?" she scoffed affronted, "It's time we make our acquaintances with lovely Ms. Vale."

* * *

They should have already fixed that car problem, Valerie thought grimacing mentally, trying to hail a taxi after Alfred had driven her to the city center in Bentley. She smoothed the short jet black hair of her wig as the other waved in the air, and finally a taxi pulled at the curb. She hopped in, legs parting with difficulty as the black pencil skirt over her knees didn't let her move them freely.

She looked like an Italian though; posh, pretentious, and very arrogant about it. The accent would be a little bit problematic, it'd been years since she had posed as an Italian, but she was sure she could still manage through it.

Eleven minutes later she was in front of Washington Park's Eastern Entrance. The doors, two big wings metal bars, were already circled with a group of police in uniforms, blocking the curious crowd outside off the perimeters. She threw her shoulders back, calling all of polished vanity she could gather, and strode off towards the entrance.

Her decisive arrogant pacing and the expensive clothes did the wonder, the crowd hesitantly divided in half as they let her walked with relative easiness. She barely hesitated in front of the police officer in charge before passing under the yellow crime scene tape. "Ma'am," the police officer called her, "I'm sorry but the park is closed—"

She shifted aside, and answered, "I know." Her tongue twisted around in her mouth to get the vowels with right indications. "This is why I'm here. I'm the supervisor of the renovations, capish?"

The police officer looked thoughtful, "Err—do you have a company ID?"

"Mio Dio, I'm an artist, not a filthy business woman," she fumed in. "I don't carry _cards_ with me."

"Ma'am—"

"Basta," she raised her voice an octave, waving her hand back and forth in a dismissive gesture. "I don't have time to bicker with you." She bypassed him. "Try to stop me, if you dare." She took a step inside, praying feverishly police didn't call her bluff.

He didn't. She walked quickly, as Bruce spoke for the first time since she left the mansion. "I didn't know you can speak the language."

"I _can't_," she replied back as her gaze traveled over the park, trying to find out the crime scene, "just a few words and intonations. I knew this guy, an Italian, he taught me some of it," she went on absentmindedly, voice lacking the suggestive drawl as the words came with an automatic customary. "You wouldn't believe the amount of exercise we had to do before my tongue picked up the proper positions, and the feeling." She halted on her steps as her eyes found the people gathered around the cleaning beside the pool. "Ah," she sighed out. "It already began."

* * *

They arrived to the Washington Park under ten minutes after the call, Burke's terrible yet good driving skills coming very handy with situations like these. They closed up from the Main Entrance at northern side as two private security of the park jogged beside their car to open the massive doors. Burke slid through the doors without gearing down, and parked along the pool. They saw Fields first, as usual, crouching down on the cleaning beside the pool, checking the earth with his palms.

Along their co-worker, they saw two backhoes, two operators, and already two MCU officers standing at the other side of the pool. Burke waved his hand towards two Majors. "Where did they come from?" he asked grimacing. "Didn't the call come directly to Homicide?"

Fields shrugged. "They must be listening to our frequencies," he answered, his long, bony fingers poking down in the earth. Burke slanted a glance to Bullock who remained silent, and grimaced further. The Homicide couldn't listen to MCU's frequencies even though they would want to. The Chief's attention shifted to a couple of police reporters already stationed around the pool a few good paces off of the police officers, and a very tall blonde who curiously looked around, raised on her toes. "How come they heard?"

Fields shrugged once again. "Who knows… They were here when I arrived." He showed the backhoes' operators three points he had examined, and got furious the men didn't climb up to backhoes enough hurried. "Come on, people, get to the work—"

"How long do we have?" Pamela asked, gazing up to the backhoes.

"Not enough," Fields answered as waving the operators up, "hurry up, hurry up, or—or—" He stopped, and threw his GCPD vest down, "Get down, get down, I'll do it myself."

Burke caught him. "Wait, man, what are you doing?" Bullock offered Charlie a cigarette. The roughish man wished he hadn't. "I gave up smoking, chief." The backhoes started working. Bullock turned aside to wave his hand toward Burke in a turning gesture.

Burke turned to Pamela. "Throw the press out, call the nearby police stations to double up the perimeter's security. No one gets inside, and gather all the remaining around—"He paused, one eye searching through the park as the other still checking Fields, "at the other side of Eastern Entrance. Now we're dividing into four groups, scanning all of the grounds. Once someone—"

"Don't scatter all around," Fields warned, interrupting. "Just look around the pool, it's enough."

Burke narrowed his eyes. "How do you know it's around the pool?"

"I just know it," Fields answered back.

Bullock sent Burke a warning glare, he knew the Chief trusted Fields' _abilities_, but this was getting ridiculous. He let out a sigh. "Okay, we start around the pool, and extend from there, "he said diplomatically. Pamela started to walk away. He shouted after her, "Get those private securities here too."

The MCU's detectives, one tall and blond, the other short and dark, started walking over their side, and stopped a few inches away from their group. Burke grimaced at them openly. "Where did you hear it?"

The taller man shrugged. "We were passing by, when we saw gathering we wanted to give a look."

"Bullshit," Burk shot back.

Both of them shrugged this time, and didn't offer any comment further. Burke grunted under his breath, but didn't press on further. He couldn't. Jurisdiction or not, the Major Crimes Unit, Gordon's precious, had privileges that his own division didn't. Bullock still kept his silence.

One backhoe finished digging through the spot Fields showed. Burke bent down to search to find out the hole was covered with dark, dusted, and thick as his wrist cables. Electric infrastructure. He growled out with irritation as a dark haired woman walked beside them. His mind raced back to the last time something was that had happened. Nothing, nothing worked fine this night. "Are you going to tell us that we can't dig here?"

Taken aback, the woman's head slightly flinched back, and asked back with a strong Italian accent, "Why would I do something like this?"

Burke's gaze grew suspicious as Fields motioned the operators to start with the second spot. "Aren't you one of the Office?"

"No, I'm on the designer's team." She drew her shoulders back, tossed her black short hair, her gaze momentarily skipping towards the big George Washington monument at the end of the pool. "I'm the Art Consultant. I came to make sure no harm would come to the renovations."

Burke shook his head disgusted. "How did you people learn it?"

She gave him a look. "Vicki Vale," she answered flatly, "She wrote it on her blog and her twitter. It made into a trending topic in ten minutes."

Burke grunted a curse under his breath. "When I find her informant—"The woman opened her mouth with a something close to 'press freedom' but Fields waved his hand to the left, noticing five security guards approaching towards them. "Did you see a white pick up today?" Burke directed his attention to the new arrivals.

The Art Consultant shut up, the majors of MCU seemed very interested, the private security guys shook their heads. Burke continued. "Anything off today? Something happened?"

One of them smiled leery, "Well, I caught some couple nekkid under a tree before the dawn, Dec." His smile became wider. "They ran away when they saw me."

"Try again," he ordered.

"No."

"Did you see anyone digging around?"

"They dig every day."

"Who?"

"Renovation people, then City Council's workers, once they get bored Mayor's own people. Whoever comes first."

"Who worked _today_?"

The guards looked at each other, then the longest of the five said causally, "Must be GCR's men, I guess. The new enforcement for the GCR is going under the park. And they're trying to change the station with a new one as well."

Bullock gave another look to Burke, who signaled three police officers in uniforms that wandered around aimlessly. "You, you, and you. Find those GCR workers." He turned around to look at the black haired woman. "And you, out too—"

That exact time Pamela returned back, a grimace set on her lips. "Sir, we have a problem," bypassing Burke, she addressed to the Chief. "We're setting apart people in two depending if they saw people with shovels and such, but they have started to say that they didn't see anything to get off."

Bullock lit another cigarette, as Burke cried out, "Fuck all people!"

Bullock titled his head to Burke. The younger man turned to his redhead coworker. "Don't let anyone go. Everyone stays whether they see something or not." He started reaching out to take a cigarette from the Chief. Burke had given up smoking a couple of months ago, but this was one of those times that deemed a good smoke, what he would have really liked was a good drink in truth but….one of the operators screamed. "I found it—found it."

Suddenly everyone stopped, all the noise surrounded them lowered into a hushed stance, as if the world halted its existence for a breadth. In the silence Bullock heard the wind going around through the dry branches, leaves rustling above them.

Then the unworldly moment passed, everything turned back to normal standards, loud and pestiferous, and they all ran towards the grave. Two operators pulled out a wooden coffin from the depths. They got coffin open without difficulty, and when it was opened, they gazed a face of an old woman, her wrinkled face looked like purple-ash, her dead eyes looking upward misted. One of the MCUs' drew out a sharp breath, and muttered, "I'll be damned."

Simultaneously they turned their eyes toward the blond man from the poor woman. "I knew her," the Major explained. "Normans, she's his mother."

Bullock lifted his head up, noticed just above the grave a tree slowly rustled its leaves for the dead.

* * *

Over the couch in Bruce's study, Valerie dreamed.

Inside the manor was bare without any furniture and she could hear the sound of leaves rustling with wind between the trees, whispering in a language only they could decipher. It filled the empty space as she wandered down the dark hall ways, stale air filling in her lungs. The windows were thick with grime and when she tried to open one, she found out that they were sealed shut. For a moment she considered forcing one to open but then became distracted by the soft murmur of voices carried over the sound of the trees. She followed it to a half open door, the iron of the door knob was cold against her skin, and she stood, frozen, watching.

A small girl sat cross-legged on the floor of a basement, a basement seemed so very familiar, as Bruce, clad in his armor, stood a few inches away from her feet, watching her, his face revealed without his cowl. "One, two, three," the girl counted, her face twisting with concentration, "four is next, I think, then…"

"Five," Bruce sustained her, brushing her bangs away from the light green eyes. "Why don't you let me cut it, I never see you properly."

"No one ever does," the small girl responded with a sad smile before brightening up, and turned to her, "Oh, look, she's come."

Bruce turned to her too, and gave her a disapproving look. "You're late."

She stepped into the room. "I didn't know I was expected. Why are you dressed like that?"

The little girl laughed merrily. "Oh, it's his idea of _irony_."

Bruce scowled, "Hardly." His tone then shifted to a rasp whisper; rough and intimidating. "I'd much rather to be in my own skin." His stone gaze found her. "I thought you all of people would know that."

Valerie shivered, the girl giggled. "_Don't_ say things like this," she leaped on her feet, dancing around Bruce, "or else she would believe."

Bruce fixed his glare to the bouncing girl around him. "Stop that."

She threw a side glance to Valerie, and smiled. "He likes very much ordering me."

Bruce grimaced further, as the girl stopped dancing. "I've lost my place," she said with a slight whine in her tone.

"Five, you stopped at five," Bruce sustained her again, his tone shifting back to normal, and turned back to Valerie. "She's not very good with math, but she gets a gold star every time for the effort."

"Six for gold," the girl exclaimed, dancing away from Bruce in excitement, "one for sorrow, two for joy…"

"Three for a girl, four for a boy," Valerie muttered.

"Five for silver," the girl continued with a glance to Bruce, "Six for gold, seven for…" She trailed off, looking around the basement, and bowed her head. "She's not here. She's never here now when she's needed to be."

"She'll turn up when she wants to; this is her game after all," Bruce said gently.

"That's not an excuse," the girl cried, now more angry than petulant, "She never comes any more when I call."

Valerie tried to ask 'who' but the word got stuck on her throat.

"Don't worry," Bruce told the little girl, kneeling in front of her. "You'll continue without her." He smiled faintly, but his eyes were burning fiercely. "I'm going to help you."

The girl scoffed, turned to Valerie, and rolled her eyes. "He _always_ wants to help."

Valerie shrugged, casting a side look to Bruce. He walked away, out of the basement through the long door into dark halls of the house. She couldn't hear his footsteps as he went.

The little girl came closer to her, sat, and slipped her little hand into Valerie's. She pulled her down on the floor too. "Will you help me count?"

Valerie shook her head, giving her a smile, "You can't fool me you know, I know who you are."

The girl just laughed. "Of course I can. I have before and will again, it's so easy." Still laughing, she reached into the pocket of her dress, and brought out a red lipstick. She smeared it over her lips, then gave Valerie a wink. "And it'd be fun too, darling."

Valerie shrunk back from the girl in front of her, and stood up. She fidgeted where she stood, foot poking dirt on the floor. "What are you counting anyway?" she asked, although a part of her thought she should have already known the answer.

The girl—_the little her_ gave her an exasperated look, as if she expected _her_ to know that too. "Chances of course," she began counting off on her fingers, "Sarah, Amy, Lucy, Cecile, Felicia," she paused briefly, a pained expression skipped on her young features, "Sarah again, Cathy, Lizzie, Dizzy, Minnie, Cameron—"She frowned at her little finger, and lifted her eyes up to Valerie, "I'm forgetting some, am I not?"

"Just a few," Valerie said softly, head bowed down.

The little girl giggled, and the noise was unsettling. She lifted her short arms up, and waved her hands toward her. Valerie leaned forward as the girl leaned in, and the girl whispered in her ear. "Bruce says we shouldn't look for her because she'll find us when she wants." Her red lips trembled as she confessed with a hardly audible voice. "Sometimes I wish she didn't."

"Who?" the word ushered barely out of her tight throat, "I don't understand."

"Yes, yes you do." The girl leaned back, and answered with a certainty in her voice, "You just don't want to."

Valerie staggered back from the girl as the urge to escape overwhelmed her, and she tried to turn back, and ran but she couldn't look away from the smile on the girl's lips—on her own face. She stumbled, falling on the floor, and choked as she nearly swallowed a mouthful of earth. The wind whipped her hair, and her eyes stung as she heard the leaves whispering above. She coughed and spitted, dragging a hand across her mouth, and pulled upright. Where she was standing, she could see the forest, green and thick, stretching in every direction, a few meters away from her a round pool lying to her left side. A lone slender figure clad in a white long dress stood at the shore, staring at the water.

She closed up to her, the woman murmured without turning back, "Took you long enough, darling." She turned back, and Valerie found herself facing with a twin copy of her who arched one eyebrow at her. She looked at her twin in astonishment as the other her puffed out of her lips, and rolled her eyes exaggeratedly. "_Please_, don't tell me I need to explain you this."

"A little tip wouldn't be bad," Valerie murmured.

"Oh, dear god—"Her other—her shook her head, then looked up at the pale outline of the waxing moon, smiling. "I see the moon, and the moon sees me," she intoned slowly then her smile faded as her voice turned to grave. "The moon sees somebody I'd like to see."

"I don't like riddles."

"It's not a riddle," she answered back flatly. "It's a secret."

"I don't like secrets too."

The other her turned her gaze away. "Only the ones you don't know."

"I—don't understand."

Her twin's head snapped back to her, her eyes were dead cold as she snapped, "You don't want to." She held her elbow, and pulled her near. "Look, just _look_."

And she did, glanced down at the pool's glinting surface, and saw…features softened, harsh lines chiseled down…a stranger, familiar yet different, she gazed at the reflection, eyes widened. She turned to the other her, _her real self_; long face, harsh lines, cruel lips, and shook her head. "It's the same fucking boring game every time. When it's going to sink into your thick skull?" The real her caught her face—her own one, long fingers digging into her flesh, her cruel face hardened. "Remember," she warned with a terribly soft voice. "At the end, I always win." She dropped her hand, and gave her a wolfish grin before shoving her into pool, her voice like a rustling of leaves brushed over her ears… "I remember the things you forgot."

She fell back, through—not water, but earth. It swallowed her up, closing on, she fell through, going under, under, under—she was going to be devoured…all eaten up…in distant she heard leaves whispering things, cruel voices whispering cruel things…

She tried to fight, opened her mouth to scream for help… _Bruce!_ Where was he? She called for him, earth filled into her mouth with each scream, slipping in eyes and nose, and the more she struggled the deeper she got buried. Then she heard a man's voice, detached and cold, emotionless, coming from nightmares. "_I buried a little lost girl…and no one is going to find her…because no one wants to." _No…no… She wasn't a little lost girl. She was… who was she…? She touched her face…

"Valerie, Valerie, hey," Hands shaking her at the shoulders, her eyes popped open, and she bolted up at Bruce's concerned face. "Are you okay?"

She stared at him with wide eyes for a minute, her chest moving up and down laboring. Her gaze flicked toward the mirror at the left side, and she saw her softer lines, stranger…familiar yet different. She looked away. "Just a dream," she mumbled, to herself or to Bruce, she wasn't sure.

"Nightmares?" he asked hesitantly, looking into her eyes.

She glanced at the mirror again; lines chiseled down, not softer but dramatic. She looked back to Bruce. "From where did you come with that?"

"You were…moaning."

"Within good reasons," she replied evenly, sounding dismissive rather than suggestive as her voice lacked the usual drawl once again, "We were having exceptionally good times."

Bruce seemed to get the fair warning as he nodded. She pushed the blanket off her. She must have fallen into sleep, waiting him. She had gone to the study after she returned to the manor, and the blanket had to be Alfred's doing. She stood up, went to toward the buffet to pour herself a glass of water. She would really like to have a glass of something harder but she wasn't sure she could deal with Bruce's annoying Temperance Movement-dom right now.

She sipped water from her glass, pushing the ominous dream back of her mind. Going there, seeing _that_ with her own eyes, she shook her head. It hadn't been a good idea. She remembered the old woman's turned to purple ash face, her deadly eyes, her mouth still open with a desperate shrill no one had heard. She remembered her own screams, the earth eating up her, closing on her… She frowned. She was getting too much personal with this, and that never ended well.

"Okay, with the last events, the theory, which was thought personally by me, of someone from Detective Sylar's past returning to take revenge kicked to buckets." She set the glass down, hopped on the bar, and tried to cross her legs, but the pencil skirt didn't let her. She frowned at the skirt. She really, really _hated_ the skirts going down under her hips. "Ok, the new theory is this," she raised her bottom a little to pull the skirt up, the cloth came up with difficulty over her knees, then she crossed her legs, sighing, "Much better."

"Ok, here the new theory," she repeated again, lifting her gaze back up to Bruce. "A child returned back to retaliate with _big parts of old Major Squad's_ retired officers. This—this is _not_ a mob doing, it's a specific thing, for a specific purpose. I think something happened with GCPD in the past, and I don't think it's something gone to the reports. Probably, it was covered up." She shrugged. "Shit happens. First Sylar, then Normans, there must be a third person too, three coffins, three people; father, mother…so then question is," she sighed out heavily, "a sister, a brother, a grandfather, a grandmother, a cousin, an uncle, an aunt… What?" she paused, as Bruce nodded, "And more importantly to whom?"

Bruce sat down on the couch and bowed head, nodding again. She jumped down, went to sit beside him. "These people aren't going to talk," she said in soft tones as Bruce kept looking at the floor. "You might need to start terrorizing some old people." She slanted him a look. "Can you manage that?"

Bruce lifted his head up, and the look he returned to her was heated enough to melt the stone. "I'll find him before he kills someone again."


	18. Chapter 16

_A/N: Here the last part of this third act, the one I've still not named, lol. Don't expect anything from me for a while. I suppose._

_With the next arc, the relationship between Bruce and Valerie will shift into another phase. Expect 'interesting' things ;)_

_And enjoy, and drop a review if you'd like._

_Edit: Just a reminder for a thing that I've realized. __I'm seeing from the statics the Chapter Fifteen having the least viewing graphics, which is terrible,_ just plain terrible_, because you can't possibly understand this story, and Valerie's character and her 'contact' to Bruce without reading Chapter Fifteen first. So,if you're reading the story as skipping some parts, I'll say this very simply; DON'T. Especially not C15,(the same thing is also applicable to C3-4-5-6, they are the ones the least read), please, don't do it. This is a plot heavy story, so you wouldn't understand a thing anyway :)_

**Chapter Sixteen:**

* * *

He was going to find that man before he buried another one, he was very determined about that but he liked to be prepared—for every possibility. Only a fool didn't learn from his mistakes, and despite what the majority of people thought, Bruce Wayne wasn't a fool. He was going to find that man, but in case that he failed, he was going to find the third victim before it was too late.

For that he was more than determined. He entered into Fox's office, Valerie following on his tail. "We need the sonar," he declared, without bothering with pleasantries. Today they hadn't time.

"And we need it yesterday," Valerie curled her lips down, "no pun intended."

Fox glared at her, she and glared back. It'd become a sort of routine for them, and Bruce had no desires to bring himself in.

"It's coming around," Fox answered, shifting his gaze to him.

"Not fast enough," Bruce replied back.

Fox scowled down, very hard. "Mr. Wayne, the last sonar was destroyed, _thoroughly_. I'm building the whole thing from scraps. Even _you _managed to do the old version in course of months." He paused to take a breath. "If you think you can do better, you're more than welcome to try your chances."

Bruce bowed his head, hiding a slight blush on his cheek. Valerie gazed at him with widened eyes. Bruce Wayne…blushing…even for slightest? Curious. She had piled on him an interesting amount of _interesting_ stuff that would have made any grown man into state of a chilly pepper but they couldn't even bring a slight color to his cheeks… Now he was blushing, faint as it was. It couldn't be because of Fox then it had to be because of what he had said… That sonar thing, she thought wondering, it must be something that Bruce was a little bit ashamed of having done, not that it would stop him doing it again, but still…

"I know," Bruce said at last, turning his head to side, "I know. I apologize for—whining."

"It's okay, Mr. Wayne," Fox said with a gentle smile, which made Valerie grit her teeth. "It's okay."

Bruce nodded, his gaze staring outside. "We found out he has three coffins," he said evenly. "Soon he'll strike again."

"Three weeks were passed between the first and second victim," Fox answered, "Serial killer are known to be keen over the details like these."

"Actually, he's not like an exact serial killer," Valerie interrupted. "He's just someone after revenge. What makes people put off, the method he excesses. Burying people alive attracts that kind of attention, I guess."

Both men stared at her, she shrugged. "Well, if he just killed those people right away, we probably wouldn't even hear it, let alone search for him." She huffed at Bruce's pointed look. "Do you know how many felonies happening in a day in this city?"

"Precisely," Bruce answered flatly.

"Okay, it was a stupid question, I admit," she sniffed, exasperated, "It doesn't change my point though."

"No," Bruce acceded and turned to Fox. "Valerie is right in one point. He won't stop before he finishes what he's started, and his time is running out," He turned back to walk the door. "He won't wait long."

He held the door open for Valerie to pass through and ushered her out. "We need to work on Ivanokovic's transactions too," he said after he let the door close behind them. "We learn what happened last night then will focus on… the man of the hour," he whispered, padding down the corridor toward the east wing where his office was.

"Sorry, can't, right now," she clarified, "My dear Alexie will have to wait a little more while. This afternoon I have a business that I can't delay."

He faltered on his steps, "Like what?"

"I need to go to shopping."

He gave her a very masterful hard look. She put her hand on her left hip. "Don't tell me you forget our big day for tomorrow night," she scoffed, "Jesus, if you're already like this, I can't imagine how you'd be like _after_ a few dates."

* * *

When Bruce entered the gym before the dinner, Valerie was already there, sitting cross-legged on the blue matte, finishing up with her yoga session. She opened her legs to both sides in a flat line, and leaned forward completely, her barely covered torso fully touched on the matte as her face twisted with concentration, breathing out through her nose. She kept in her position for a full minute before she straightened her back to a sitting position while Bruce wrapped boxing bandages over his hands. She raised her arms up, propped one against the other, and stretched to each side then swung herself backward to form a bridge.

First she slowly raised her left leg up as much as it could go, trembling, eyes closed, then started with the other one. Her muscles had strength, agility, and flexibility; he had realized it even before he had started to instruct her. She was only lacking any sort of technique to go with it, from her many moves he had observed street fighting; brutal and mean, but close to point.

She stood up, leaning down to touch her feet. "When did you start to do yoga?"

She lifted her head up at him, her ponytail swinging one side. "Around my late fifteen." She pulled upright. "I've been always more—elastic than my peers but one day Jason thought I was losing flexibility," she said, arms braced on her waist, leaned to one side, "and deemed it unacceptable. The next day we went to buy a sports video for home exercising." She paused briefly, sighing out. "I had no idea. Yoga seemed pretty… harmless, people sitting on their bottoms—"She leaned on the other side, "just 'humming'. When we came to home, I gathered what a terrible misjudging I'd done." She laughed. "He used to make me doing it for hours every night, then, it turned into a habit, I guess." She went toward a Swiss ball and sat on it. "As I said, good for the soul, better for the body."

She didn't clarify why her father had thought losing flexibility was unacceptable, and Bruce didn't ask. He decided he didn't want to know. "Where did you learn to fight?"

"Some of it from Jason, the rest… here and there." She shrugged back, and bowed her head swaying over the ball, "Get beaten enough you manage to pick up how to swing a fist in the meanwhile." She lifted her head up. "When I get another hour with you?"

"For the second date," Bruce answered, a hint of smirk appearing on his lips. "We're already settled for tomorrow night."

"Oh, please," she puffed out of her nose. "I surely cost more than _that_."

"If you wish." Bruce walked toward her, and extended his hand. She took the offered hand. He pulled her on her feet.

She could be very determined when she wanted it, her back hit on the padded mattress countless times during the hour, but each time she was back on her feet, groaning but still listening to his instructions earnestly. She threw a kick, Bruce caught it in the air, and twisting it he forced her to drop down on her bottom, his fingers still wrapped around her ankle.

She groaned, and closed her eyes momentarily. "Is there any particular reason why you keep sweeping the floor with my finely well-shaped back asset?"

He scowled, tapping the upside of her feet. "Don't use the side of your feet when you threw a sideway kick." He dropped her leg. "Use the front, angle it. It'll reduce the counter effects and will keep your balance better."

She stood up, nodding, and threw another kick as he had said. Bruce caught it again, but at least this time she stayed on her legs. He nodded approvingly. "Better," he let go the leg, "again."

Thirty five minutes later, she dropped herself down, braced her hands at her side backward, and leaned back. "Okay, that's enough for me for tonight; you manage to wear me out." She tossed her head back. "I have to go and start digging around those transacting—"

"It's okay," Bruce interrupted her. "I'll handle it. Call it a night, you seem a little—"

"I'm fine," Valerie interrupted him, "just a little bit tired."

"Dark circles under your eyes tell differently," he replied nonchalantly, trying to sound causal. She wasn't a little bit tired, she was exhausted, and maybe he was pushing her too much. Last night when he had found her she was having a bad dream, he was sure of it, even though she would probably never admit it. "Take this night off, I'll have Alfred." She grimaced, not looking pleased. Bruce cocked his head slightly. "Do you want to go to the party with those bags tomorrow night?"

As he had expected that made her expression turned from defiant to worried, as she chewed her bottom lip, calculations going fast in her eyes. Then she nodded. "Okay, you made a very powerful defense. I'm off to bed."

* * *

The heat was suffocating even in the coolness of the night. His skin tight underclothes in heavy armor was dripping wet with sweat as he perched on the edge of the rooftop, body motionless, stilled in waiting. Gordon was running late.

Being late wasn't an attribution one could easily attach to the Commissioner but Bruce was well aware of the last happenings in the Commissioner's life. He wished he could silence that persistent pang of guilt tightening his chest whenever his thoughts turned to there, no, he couldn't silence it yet but he'd gotten very good at ignoring its existence over the days had passed.

Inured guilt… that was what he knew from deep of his heart, something close to a bee sting, just a chafe over the surface, vague; but underneath, in deep down a wound that never ceased throbbing. Sometimes he couldn't decide which was worse, this accustomed guilt, or that bolt of loss, sharp than any blade, stabbing in heart. He had to find the third victim, before it was too late. He must not fail this time.

Gordon arrived quietly, watching closely his crouching figure. "Interpol got Ivanakovic two days ago," he said getting closer, "was that your doing?"

He gave Gordon a silent look then rasped out, talking in plural on purpose. "We need to know what happened in the department in the past."

Gordon shook his head. "Everything seemed ordinary," he hesitated. "I ordered another full research to Homicide but nothing came up."

"Something must have been covered up."

Gordon grimaced, not liking where this conversation was going. That was what everyone in the force thought now even though no one got the nerve to say it open at his face, well, no one except Batman, of course. Bullock might have said it too, Gordon thought briefly, if he would bother to _talk_. "I talked with Mayor. We will open up some old classified files."

Bruce nodded, Gordon nodded back. "The Irish—"

"—have to wait," he cut off the Commissioner. "We need to find this man first."

He'd made that mistake once, had put the mob above one psychopath, and it hadn't turned out well, and he didn't make the same mistake twice. "He has got three coffins," he turned back, readying himself for a jump. "Go to the Homeless Cemetery." He opened his arms and dived in, gliding through the air.

He folded the airfoil of his cape when he estimated that he arrived at his destination, rolled over one alley at the back of 71th Street at the Beluga. Despite of being far from away the wealthy parts of city, with two stories houses placed neatly next to next, fences kept each other dutifully apart, the grass green and cut meticulously, Beluga was a decent neighborhood, in fact a little too much decent for a cop waiting his retirement.

It was time to terrorize some old people.

He watched as Lt. Det. Liam O'Connor paced inside his living room back and forth as his ear remained in silence, uncharacteristic for these days. He grimaced. He was getting too much accustomed to Valerie's silly chatter. He threw a kick to dustbins next to him and watched them as they scattered down over the pavement. O'Connor inside ran towards to the windows, checking outside, as an attractive girl around her late twenties came into the living room, shivering, tears running along.

He frowned. O'Connor ran back towards her, pulling her in embrace, rocking her back and forth. The girl's cries became even harder in the detective's embrace. "Alfred," he called in.

"Yes, sir?"

"With whom with Detective O'Connor is living?"

The line stayed silent for a while as Alfred searched through the database. "With his sister, sir," he said at last after a couple of minutes later, "According to side-notes she's spastic. She's twenty eight years old but has a mental age of five."

Bruce nodded. Not only he was to terrorize old people now but it seemed he had already terrorized a poor little girl with a body of an adult. O'Connor led her out of the room, toward her room, he guessed, then returned to living room. He exited out of the house, slowly, his movements were careful not to make a noise.

The man walked toward where he had kicked the bins down, Bruce walked out of the shadows he had hid in, and catching the detective at his throat, he propped him against the house's wall. "Why someone is after Sylar and Normans?"

The man sputtered out of his throat, he lessened his grip a bit, "Speak."

"I don't know— they were like a legend when I came to division… It wasn't like this back in these days but the mob was getting the city in its clutches slowly. They fought it, fought well… made quite people furious."

"They hurt anyone's family?"

The detective shook his head. "No—they are good people," he forced out. "Good cops."

Batman let his grip on the man, and turned back to mush into shadows, when O'Connor rose on his feet, he was already gone.

* * *

Gray haired man pinched his awry nose, broken months ago; a unique gift from this shitty business. The spacious study was gloomy without a source of light, but full of ornate furniture, pretentious and lush, just like the rest of his penthouse.

Pale moonlight reflected on his crystal round glass and over the thirty years old malt whiskey, as he sipped it slowly, his head in thoughts.

It was getting worse, he should have probably interfered, tried to stop him. There had been reasons why he opted to give the list to the boy after he'd heard the official investigation bit to dust. He owed at least that much to his friend, but it shouldn't be like this, not something like this, something almost disturbing even him.

He left his penthouse half an hour later. He had already learned the bunker's location, and he was a little bit surprised when he didn't see his _friends_ around.

He was sitting beside a long window, gazing the port bay behind, and he wasn't looking surprised of his unexpected company. "This stops right now," he ordered.

The young man –did he become thirty- didn't lift his head nor did he look at him. "I was expecting you before, truthfully."

He shoved his hands inside his pockets, nodding in acceptance. "I was having doubts with the first, couldn't be sure, but after Normans, all my doubts ceased."

"I see."

"This stops now," he remarked again. "Stop hurting others. Go directly with the responsible ones."

"Impossible," he simply said, lifting his head up.

"Listen to me—"

"I'm the rightful one," he cut him off, standing up, "and the just."

"You won't touch the girl."

He walked closer, "Impossible."

"I'll stop you."

"Impossible." Before seeing the blade, he felt it cutting through his flesh. He trembled, then the blade turned in his insides. He cried with pain, trying to grab the young man to steady himself.

He was old, he had grown old. There had been times when he would have never caught by an attack in such nature, but money and comfort had grown him soft. So almost sixty years, and his life had come to this, begging _help_ from the man who was ending it.

Twenty years ago, it wouldn't have seemed possible.

* * *

Liam O'Connor paced back and forth along his backyard, his hands shoved deep in pockets. He couldn't still believe this happening, after all those years, after all this time… No, that wasn't entirely true too, two years ago they all had hard times; when the late assistant DA tried to start a fuss over it, but surely it hadn't been like this. And with the help of late Commissioner they'd been able to push it down again… then the Joker had happened… He sighed out. If only they knew who had handed out that list…

A tall, dark figure approached from the darkness, he got tenser, halting in his steps, and then a second later the dark figure turned into a dark haired man in sharp business suit. He let out a sigh of relief. "Don't fucking sneak upon me, _sir_," he added the last bitingly.

The Mayor gave him a hard look. "This surely shouldn't be becoming us, Lieutenant," he replied evenly.

O'Connor threw him even harder look back. "You're not the one who is that lunatic after."

"Neither you are," the Mayor pointed out.

"I want to relocate her," the detective said, ignoring the last remark, "She can't stay here."

Mayor Garcia remained silent for a while then shook his head slowly, breathing out, "I'm sorry, but no," and for a moment he even sounded genuine. "If we moved her now, everyone starts to wonder why—"

"I don't care," the detective bellowed, clutching the Mayor at his pristine white collar, "don't you know what he did to them? He buried them alive."

Garcia yanked his collar out of his clutch. "I'm well aware of that fact, Lieutenant." He took a step back. "I don't want to put her in danger, but be reasonable. We don't know how many people there on that damn list. If you move her now, you'd put her in even more danger."

O'Connor's anger seemed to relinquish with that as he looked doubtful, two teeth worrying his bottom lip. "Are you sure?"

"We have no evidence to suggest from whom he's got the list," he replied back, "or to suggest the names on it." He paused. "Remember, the mole in DA was only mentioning a _possibility_ of a list. It's—"He hesitates again. "It's possible he doesn't know all—involved parties. And you moved to Narcotics quickly."

"I couldn't stay there—"He drew a ticked breath, "Not after what happened."

The Mayor nodded. "Don't move her," he ordered again. "It's too risky. I'll put her under secret surveillance. No one will get hurt any more. Now you mention Batman, I believe."

"He found me tonight," he answered, voice shaking once again. "He's getting suspicious, does he?"

The Mayor shrugged. "Probably, not my primary concern though."

O'Connor glared at him. "You don't know what he does to people he believes that they need to pay for the crimes they've committed?"

"Not certainly burying their only remaining relative alive in crude coffins," the Mayor answered before turning to leave. "Leave him to me, I'll deal with him."

* * *

Whether it was a trick of make-up or a wonder of a night-off, there was definitively no dark circles under Valerie's eyes. She walked into the room, threw herself over the chair, and picked up the orange juice.

"Rough night?" she asked, sipping from her beverage. Bruce made a noncommittal voice out of his lips. "How it went with Gordon?" she asked further.

"He's making his people look over again," he answered, taking a sip from his tea. "He'll make Mayor—"

"We should look into the Mayor too," she cut him off, heads in thoughts. "He's the old mayor's son."

Bruce grimaced. "I already did, clean," he paused. "I went to—see O'Connor last night."

"Hmm," she said.

"He claimed Sylar and Normans didn't do anything bad."

"Funny that everyone we've talked saying the same thing." She lifted her head up. "He might be involved too."

"He has a sister in home," he answered back.

"Hmm?"

"Do you think he would let her stay if he's involved?"

"Good point," she nodded in accordance. "I went through a couple of witness report from Normans' neighbors last night before the sleep. None saw a white pick-up and you still couldn't find out those other two, CCTV's are clean again." She paused briefly. "I think they changed the car's plates for each murder, and masquerade it as from one of the worker's team. It's probably why it didn't pick up no one's attention, and why we're not finding it." She stood up. "Now, off you go to work." She bent down and slid her hand inside his left pocket.

"_What_ are you doing?"

"Keys," she replied as fishing the car key out, and straightened. "I have a date with Mr. Armani."

* * *

_A/N: And I gave you even a twist at the end :P_

_Till the next time, bye._


	19. Chapter 17

_A/N: SURPRISE! I know, I don't even have excuses now. I really have no self-control over my impulses when I'm in these kind of moods, but well, that's hardly news for me, so, let's move on. :)_

_Though, I still have to say something, I think last night I made a mistake, I guess I should have posted this chapter too, because I think it's in the same arc too, but I'm not sure. I could also say it stands on its own. Whatever. You'll decide yourself._

_And attention, it's 'here be dragons.' I'm keeping my mouth shut not to spoil things, but I will see you again at the end._

_And this is the most important chapter you've read so far, so tread softly :) 'Cause you're treading on my dreams._

_x_

I don't care what you believe in, just believe in it.

- Shepherd Book, Serenity (Firefly)

**Chapter Seventeen:**

* * *

Armani suited her very well, Bruce thought at the first sight of her on the stairway.

And of course, she wore it in green; the darkest sparkling green mixed with gold, and she wore it long this time for a change, the floating hem brushing the floor as she descended the steps. Her hair was pulled up in dramatic fashion, green eyes were emphasized with thick black eyeliner, and she looked… breathtaking. She stopped on the last step in the hall, looking at him expectantly. When he didn't speak, she huffed out. "You're supposed to say something flattering here, boyfriend."

"You look beautiful," he obeyed, and then gave her a little scowl, "even in green."

Even his little jab didn't faze her, she smiled delightedly, a small, genuine one; not one of 'I want something from you and will get it no matter what' or 'I know something you don't' or 'you're so stupid and I can't mock you enough" or 'I'm flashing this exceptionally gorgeous smile so I can make you fall all over my feet while pulling you into my schemes'.

"You look quite dashing yourself," she returned the arbitrary compliment, the corners of lips tilting up further.

He gave her a small smile, "Just relieved to see my money was put to good use."

"Making good use of someone _else_'s money has always been my field of expertise, Bruce," she tugged her hand along his elbow as Alfred watched them silently with wary eyes. Curiously Alfred hadn't objected to Valerie's proposal when they had made their bargain, seemingly the older man had lost his hope and finally acknowledged the inescapable truth that he would never see a real girlfriend at his side… Or Bruce suddenly thought, could it be that Alfred wished the _thing _with Valerie would turn into something at least a little bit more… authentic?

Disturbed by such a notion, all mirth left his face. Putting his hand on the small of her back, he ushered her out, toward the Lamborghini while whispering into her ear with a faint growl. "Don't forget. No funny business."

Smile gone, she scoffed and dropped herself into the passenger seat. "You know it won't serve anything if you'll be in this mood. We're on a date, we're lovers; we're _doing_ it. You'll need to at least kiss me once." He gave her a look, she rolled her eyes. "And I'm not talking about a quick peck on the lips. I mean a real kiss, tongues and teeth, and—other stuff."

He started the car. "Yes."

She shifted on her seat. "I don't know, Bruce. As good as our bargain is, if you keep behaving like this, maybe it's best to forget—"He half pivoted his body to reach her. With a swift motion, his right hand tightly wrapped around the back of her neck, he pulled her for a kiss. His kiss was demanding and insistent as he didn't wait for her to open her lips and invite him in, instead drove his way forcefully. She whimpered out of her nose and came out of her stupor, hands flying to his collar to pull him closer, her tongue picking up speed to reach his. Then as abruptly as he'd started, he stopped and pushed back out of her grip.

He looked at her. She was flushed rosily a bit with heat, her eyes darkened, her lips slightly swollen and reddened with her ruined lipstick. "When we need to kiss, we'll kiss and do _other stuff_."

She nodded. "Um, ok." Bruce narrowed his eyes. It was hard to believe one kiss could have brought her to such level of—agreeability. Then a look appeared on her features as if she realized it too, and she flinched back then grimaced.

She pulled the visor mirror down as he started to take the car out of the Wayne Lane, and looked at her reflection, immediately making a face. "Jesus, Bruce, you ruined my makeup. And you don't _even_ tell me," she chided as her eyes gave a disgusted look at her crimson rouge smeared all over places outside of the lines of her lips.

She pulled a wet tissue from car's glove compartment, and started to wipe the ruins. "Okay, no more kissing for us," she said grudgingly.

"Well, maybe you shouldn't put the reddest lipstick known to mankind on your lips."

She threw a wet napkin at him too. "What else do you think I shouldn't do, Mr. Wayne, at least before getting your permission?"

His hands halted over wiping her smeared rogue over _his_ lips, his attention skipped off the road, and he gave her a blank stare. She arched an eyebrow, and laughed. "You'd really like to have me under your control, wouldn't you, Bruce?" He didn't respond; his grip on the wheel grew tighter. He had no such desires, he had not… His grimace grew even more.

She took out her compact powder and her damn crimson stick out of her fancy clutch, powdered her skin where she'd wiped then re-applied the lipstick. "There is an Irish saying I believe you need to hear."

"Which is—?" he asked flatly.

She pushed the visor to its place, giving him a side glance before leaning back. "You can't kiss an Irish girl unexpectedly." Then she smiled, satisfied. "You only can kiss her sooner than she thought you would."

* * *

He had to give her that; she knew how to make an entrance. She climbed out of the car, expertly showing a generous amount of legs through the dress's slit, and posed gracefully waiting for him to come to her side. Approaching her with a lazy swagger, Bruce pulled her closer to his side by circling his arm through her waist, and smiled his charming playboy smile to the paparazzi for a few seconds before they entered the ballroom.

Within ten minutes, the word spread like forest fire that Bruce Wayne was attending the party with a date, seemed quite smitten by her, and the lucky girl was no other than his _bodyguard._

He carried them towards Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds, an old couple who had been one of his parent's acquaintances, which were circled around a couple of their own friends. Seeing their approach, Mr. Reynolds smiled and raised his flute toward him, and Mrs. Reynolds waved her hand. "Ah, Bruce, good evenings," she said with a sweet note when they arrived as her gaze openly weighed Valerie who in return gave the older woman a full happy grin, and that exact moment Bruce collected that she was going to go with_ the_ _girlfriend experience_.

"Hello, Betsy, tis' Valerie—my body—"he paused, and smiled down at her. "Well, actually now my girlfriend. But I believe you already met."

"Oh, yes, at the fundraiser in your penthouse," Mrs. Reynolds said slightly frowning. "Well then, we heard the word. We should take it that you two are, um—"She faltered looking for a word, "—serious?"

Her husband joined into conversation. "Betsy, leave the young couple alone."

Valerie though answered cheerfully, "Absolutely!" She grinned wide, tugging her hand through his arm. "Well, of course, it wasn't like this at first. I mean, it was just sex, sex, sex, in all rooms of the manor at all times of the day, all in positions! And god, you wouldn't believe such a _big_—house he has." She gave all of them another big grin, leaning on him further. "But, um, once we got a chance to get to know each other better, we formed a deeper connection. A spiritual bond, you might even say."

Bruce laughed and pulled her even closer to his side as their funny looking faces remained motionless while they tried to get over the shock. He tilted his head and brushed his lips the line under her chin for a quick kiss, affectionate. "You see why I fell for her."

Mr. Reynolds gave him a belittling look. "She seems to be perfect for you, Bruce."

Bruce let out another loud laugh that could be passed as a drunken fit, and started to draw Valerie to the dance floor. He flew her around, then took her curtly in his arms, his grip was tight, a scowl already forming between his brows. "Did you _really_ need to do that?"

She took a step forward, and gave him an innocent look. "I was just trying to redeem their opinions about your sex life."

"They think it's just fine."

"Ugh, _don't_ you wish it," she shot back, laughing.

They circled the floor before exiting to the terrace. Putting her hands on the rails, Valerie breathed heavily. "Now, Bruce, be a good sweetheart and bring your date a drink." He scowled, she grunted. "Just water would be fine. I'm thirsty."

As soon as Bruce left, Thomas Elliot appeared beside her. "I _can't_ believe it," he said, looking some twenty stories down, the fingers of one hand held a joint and a glass while the other held a flute, and his expression was somewhere between being really disappointed and amused.

She slanted him a disinterested look then gazed down below. "Am I to understand you don't approve of my choice?"

"Well, he's fool, and you are not." He offered her the flute, which she took gladly. Bruce could be pissed off as much as he wanted. She _was_ thirsty.

"A tall, dark, handsome fool with a lot of money who is willing to throw it in my direction happily," she commented, taking a big sip from the flute. "What a girl could ask for more?"

This time Thomas smiled. She smiled back then narrowed her eyes at his glass. "What the hell are you drinking?"

His gaze dropped down at his glass too. "Mineral water."

"Mineral water?"

He laughed, taking a puff of his joint and blew the smoke at her. "I'm going a little bit more subtle tonight."

"Subtle?" she sniffed, waving her hands back and forth to dispel the smoke. She sniffed again, something mixed with marijuana.

He offered it to her. "Wanna some? My guy tells me it's the best Gotham can offer." She curled her lips, hesitating. It'd been a while. Marijuana certainly wouldn't affect her much but if Bruce knew— "Now, _please_, don't tell me Bruce has managed to bring your inner Stepford out." Thomas interrupted her line of thoughts, his voice fake whinny.

She grimaced, sending him a nasty glower, and took the joint out of his hand. She drew a big breath as the smoke filled in her lungs and gave it back to him. "Well, at least I can still sleep with an eased heart knowing that it'd be all over before long."

Putting a hand on her waist, she scowled. "Excuse me?"

He shrugged, drawing in another breath. "His reputation, Valerie." He returned her the joint. "I didn't say he is a fool without a reason."

She gave him a hard look, giving the smoke back after another breath. "So how long do you think I'd last?"

"A week," he said, shrugging again.

"_A week_?!"

"Again, I said _fool_, didn't I?"

"Who is a fool?" Bruce showed up behind, his head hovered above the angle of her neck and shoulder. She felt his lips touching, briefly, and felt his grimace over her skin as his hand held the flute between her fingers before taking it away. And even from behind her she could feel Bruce's stare settling on the joint between Thomas's fingers.

"No one of importance," Thomas answered back but Bruce's attention was already drawn off him. He pulled her next to him and gave her the glass in his hand, simple water. "Come," he whispered in her ear, audible enough to be heard by Thomas too. "Let's dance."

He dragged her inside. She turned around between his arms to scowl at him as soon as they hit to the dance floor. "That wasn't nice at all. I was trying to have a conversation over there."

He didn't answer. She let out a sigh. "Look, I really don't care what passed between you two, and I don't care whom he hurt in the past or what kinds of dangers you think he possesses. The _thing_ is I happen to find him quite interesting. _So_ I'd really appreciate if you stopped behaving like a jealous boyfriend on raging hormones."

"But I _am_ your boyfriend," he pointed out.

"That's sweet," she snickered, "but we settled on an open relationship, remember?" He scowled. She took a step forward, then smiled sweetly. "Careful, Bruce, if you keep this up, I might really start to consider that you're actually jealous for _me_."

His scowl grew into a hard look, which she laughed at, hard. Then his features eased into a neutral stance. "I—don't see why you find him—interesting," he finally said.

"You mean other than he's dark, tall, and handsome, with _lots_ of money?"

"Ah…" Bruce sighed out falsely, "His poor pocket, when you get your hands in it—"

Getting even closer, she smiled further, lips drawing out, voice dripping with silkiness. "Rest assured, Bruce." She locked her eyes onto his. "For any lucky man who happens to have my hand in his pocket, the wallet there would be _the least _of his concerns."

"Then why don't you go and ease his…_concerns_?" he shot back, this time sounding angry.

"Maybe I would have if you didn't interrupt our conversation once again before _stealing_ me away." She gave him a raised smug eyebrow then said, "All right, let me explain to you how it works. You're a smart man, Bruce, but when it comes to this kind of business you grow idiotic." He ignored once again another insult from her as she went on. "Guys like him enjoy the pursuit of happiness more than happiness itself. Once I wanted a shoe, a red one, the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. I was gazing at it in the store's window every day for a month, then one day I bought it, went to my flat, tore the package, and looked at it. There, sitting on my bed it wasn't stunning at all. It just looked like a pair of shoes, one of the—_hundreds_ I already had. And that, Bruce, is the price you have to pay to have something you desire."

He pulled her closer to his chest, and asked, "What about love?"

"What about it?" she asked back, laughing. "It doesn't even exist. Most of the times the thing you call love is nothing more than a pretty lie you men use to garnish the unappealing truth that all you want is to chain some lucky woman to a cooker so you can have a lay and/or a meal at your beck and call."

Bruce looked at her. She sniffed. "Pretty fiction. Silly tales. Charming lies, meant to deceive, built on deceit, an easy excuse at best and nothing more. I've have seen people at their worst, and most of the time they based the reason of their actions on love." Something flickered over her vision, and she blinked to put it off. "You saw yourself what _love_ did to Harvey Dent."

Bruce grew tense, his grip tightening, "You don't believe in fairy tales, do you?"

"I know dreams for dreams, but life is rea—"The lights flickered again and she closed her eyes, feeling off. She felt her face flush, the heat exploding in her as her legs trembled. She grabbed Bruce's arm steadying herself. She opened her eyes to look at him and saw that he was eyeing her suspiciously. "Are you all right?" he asked.

She shook her head to clear it. "I felt faint for a second—"Then world exploded into a sudden twirl of colors—what the hell—then suddenly all the lights went out, and from the corner of her eyes she thought she saw something. She heard a deep, rough breathing, coming from right behind her neck, its smell foul, decaying. A mist, a yellow smoke filled her vision and her nostrils, bringing the foul smell further. Shifting her head slowly to the side, she searched for its source then she heard a distant faint voice saying, '_I remember the things you forgot.'_

She shivered as dread gripped her insides coldly. She closed her eyes, the tiles under her bare feet started melting, what a minute—bare feet? "Bruce—?" She felt herself falling… no sinking… The floor was going to eat her up, devour her, she would be buried, alive, six feet deep, and there would be nothing left of her.

_No, not real, open your eyes… Something must have been mixed with marijuana, open your eyes!_

She whimpered, trying to open her eyes.

_Open your eyes…_

Gathering all of her strength, she did. She was between arms, muscled and tense, shivering. She raised her eyes up to find Bruce's familiar blue ones, as he looked at her with an agitated worry, close to panic. "What's happening?" she muttered.

Bruce gave her a look, one she had never seen on his face before; not a glare not a hard or pointed, disapproving one, not even a glower. It was full of revulsion, and disdain, and it cut her flesh deep inside. "You can't be trusted."

He then let her go. The tiles started to bury her again, taking her under. She stretched her hand out trying to reach for him—he couldn't leave her—he couldn't—he had not… He pulled back from her hand, took a step back then his face switched to Jason. "Your death like your life belongs to you, only you."

She fell through… earth… darkness all that was left to her was darkness. "No one wants Sarah," Cathleen's flat voice said in the darkness, "Because she is a bad girl."

"_No…no…"_

Jason was talking with a dark silhouette. "When," he asked softly, "is a lost girl not a lost girl?" He paused then… the darkness paused with him too, "What? Too easy…hmm…all right, how about this: If all the seas were earth, all earth were stone, and if all stones were bread and cheese, what would we have to drink?"

A snicker, thick with disdain but smooth like a brush over silk rang in the darkness, "Why, the sweet blood of the innocent, of course," Then a sigh, boredom laced with disappointment, "Still too easy father, give me another one."

In the darkness the shadows lifted and she saw the basement, still familiar after all those years. She sensed the presence of the voice, the hair on the back of her neck stood up. She shifted her head slowly to the side…

And there _She_ was, in the farthest corner, clad in white, harsh angled features, familiar yet different, cruel lips tilted up, then she vanished and reappeared just beside her, and her breath brushed over her ear, her lips burned her flesh as they touched her skin. "I remember what you forgot,"she whispered, as just behind her another presence appeared, and she _smiled _as the familiar tapping echoed, rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat… _No…_ "And you can't _hide_ anymore." While the woman—stranger—no… not stranger vanished, she turned her head fully. The walking corpse approached, limping slowly, breathing deeply as his breaths came out like a poisonous smoke, hands raised in front of him as if to hug her, as he looked at her with his dead glass eyes.

She closed her eyes. _"No…"_ she mumbled, falling on the ground. He had to… He had to… No. Nothing happened. Nothing changed.

"_No…"_ She realized its arrival from the foul smell without seeing it. Her body pulled into a fetal position to protect itself from his touch. _"Nothing happened."_

* * *

Sitting on the dance floor, Bruce held her across his lap as she shook with tremors, out of control, mumbling to herself. Panic voices rose in the background and he lifted his head and saw that Thomas Elliot was lying on the floor a few feet away from them, in the same condition.

Cursing under his breath, he opened her eyelids to check her eyes. Pupils highly dilated, with a certain misted, unfocused look that was characteristic for people that were drugged. Another silent curse on his lips, he remembered the joint he'd seen between Elliot's fingers just moments ago. It seemed he finally found his test subjects for the new drug derived from the blue flower.

He fished out his telephone and dialed Alfred. "Alfred, bring Fox in, we have a situation," he ordered. "And prepare some antidotes for the fear toxin."

Standing up, he cuddled Valerie in his arms. _"No…" _She started to whimper as her body started shaking with a second wave of tremors. _"No…"_

This time Bruce curse loudly. Valerie whimpered again, and her body contracted with spasms. Freeing one hand, he shook her shoulder hard. "Open your eyes," he said, trying to wake her up.

For a second, jogging toward his car, he thought of what dread she'd bottled up, and the thought froze his blood. "Valerie, open your eyes."

"_Nothing happened," _the hushedwords spilled out of her mouth. He put her carefully at the car, leaning the seat completely back. _"Nothing changed—"_ she whimpered again, as her body pulled into a fetal position. _"Nothing… happened…"_

Her eyes fluttered halfway open, and she looked at him with glazed eyes filled with terror. Then her body suddenly arched up, and a painful howl tore itself out of her throat. Speeding up the car, he cursed again. "Valerie—dammit," he yelled, his hand reaching out for her, a strong sense of deja-vu hitting him. "_Valerie!_"

He entered Wayne Lane going a crazy speed that would have make her whistle if she'd been conscious and pulled her out of the car hastily. Alfred rushed down from the stairs to meet him, the antidote they'd stored in his hand.

He rested her shaking body beside the car. "Fox coming?" He injected the vial in her arm.

Alfred nodded. "How was she drugged?"

"Thomas Elliot," he hissed out angrily and opened her eyelids to check her eyes again. "I warned her. I told her to stay away. Did she listen?" He gathered her up in his arms, and started to carry her inside, "No, of course not… God forbid she listens to me just once."

* * *

She really, really, really hated hangovers.

A killer headache… check

A brain that felt like mush… check

Dehydration… yup… check

A body drained on the cold tiles—her thoughts abruptly came to a halt as she sensed that she rested over a soft mattress, and it wasn't cold at all. Well, that was a change. Normally when she passed out, it tended to be in the most pitiful conditions.

Moaning, she turned to the side, slowly opened her eyes, and tried to remember what had happened.

Blankness. Slowly she slipped her hand inside the blanket to see if she was still clothed. Yep, clothes, satin PJs to be exact, were on. Well, normally when people date-raped you, they wouldn't leave you lying on a soft bed but it never hurt to cover all bases. But the room was familiar, so familiar… then as if a mist suddenly lifted off her mind, she recognized it.

It was her room, and this was _her _bed.

Memories without notice started to jump up all at once. She balanced one hand on the bed, trying to get up when Bruce walked into the room. "What the hell happened?" she asked, wincing.

He scowled. "Don't you remember?"

"We were dancing then things—went odd," she said trying to make sense of the snapshots jumping at her. "The lights went out. I remember darkness."

"Do you know anything about the fear attack from two years ago?"

She nodded. "I heard things."

"You were drugged by a version of the same hallucinogenic."

"Was I?"

He nodded briskly. "You've been unconscious since last night." She signaled for the water on the nightstand and he went to pour her a glass. "It seemed last night your conversation with Elliot wasn't the only thing I interrupted," he remarked flatly, offering the glass.

_Oh Jesus…not now._ "Do we have to do this _now_?" She indicated herself with her hand, taking the glass with other, lowering her tone into a helpless whining. "I've been poisoned, out for a whole night."

He didn't seem to be affected by it though. "My 'no drinks' also includes drugs. You won't use any compound again."

"I'm not a junkie," she hissed between her teeth, helpless posture be damned. She wasn't a junkie, she was not. And he knew it too. He'd been keeping tabs on her since she had returned. He knew for a fact that she was clean, on contraception, and bore no kind of disease, aside from a few mild allergies. "I thought it was just pot."

"You won't do that either."

Glowering at him, she nodded curtly. He seemed to be keeping his temper forcibly at bay, and she had no desire to start a pointless fight with him. Let him think whatever the hell he wanted to think. But apparently she had made him angry once again, not just his usual irritation and annoyance reserved especially for her, but plain downright anger. Last night he must have been forced to stay in when things were getting out of control once again because she was a shivering, whimpering idiot… She frowned at the glass in her hands. "Bruce," she lifted her eyes up, "when I was unconscious, um, did I say things?"

He fixed his gaze on her. She held her breath. "Other than the occasional 'no's; nothing," she sighed. "—happened. You said nothing changed."

Looking at him dumfounded, she didn't realize the glass had slipped out of her grip before it shattered on the floor. Bruce looked down at the pieces then up to her. "What does that mean?"

She stood up on shaking legs as the world turned around her. "Nothing," she mumbled out, trying a smile, "Ramblings of a delusional mind."

She made a move to jog toward the bathroom but he caught her before she could reach the door. He pulled her back. "You're lying to me again." He didn't raise his voice, it was soft but its effect was the same.

She looked at him. "Then don't ask me questions. I don't ask you why you blame yourself for your parent's death." He looked at her back, stunned as she broke out of his grip.

She escaped to bathroom, sat beside the tub, arms circling her legs, trying desperately to think of anything other than that. Jason, if he'd seen her now would have been proud. She must have done a damn fine job to get herself back together, moving on with her life, if _that_ only came up to haunt her with a help of hallucination drug.

There was the matter of her dreams, of course but that was another thing. It was underst—No. She wasn't going to think about it. She was _not_ going to. She could deal with everything but not with that. Last time she had turned back at the last moment, from the very edge of the cliff, and it had taken all that was left of her. She couldn't—wouldn't—without understanding what's happening, the memories rushed into her. She slid toward the floor, and wished for the darkness, the sweet nothingness to claim her.

_If you yelled enough, if you fought enough, and if you understood there wasn't anyone coming, you stopped yelling, you stopped fighting. Not because you gave up, but because you told yourself one thing; be strong, be stone, suck it up… wait for your time to come._

_Jason was right in his lessons once again. Every contact leaves a trace. The flog came down with cracks, the whizzing in the air sounded like a bad omen from nightmares, and she wanted to howl out—she wanted to tear her chest apart but there was no sound left in her raw throat. Embrace the pain, don't fight it, go through it, carry it with dignity. She wouldn't know anything about dignity but she was damn sure she went through it._

_Then it stopped. Legs trembling, she stood up then fell again. Nauseous, twisting… pain—burning scorching pain, crunched in her stomach, and she felt the hands lifting her up more than seeing them. They left her on the hard mattress, lying face down. _

_With the last ounce of strengthen, she clutched the hands. "This—"Talking was hard, talking was painful, words were like beads made of glass choking in her throat, yet she tried, tried to get them free. "This—this won't stop me."_

"_I know."_

_x_

_Raw, shrilling, almost inhumane, her screams sounded unworldly even to her ears._

_Then it stopped, the humming of the machine stopped, her arching back dropped on the table, screams turned into weeps, and tremors ran over her wasted body as she started feeling again; the coldness of metal clamps on her toes and fingers, each biting, leather restrains cutting deep into her flesh._

_She slowly opened her eyes and looked at him as he stood beside the machine as Laurent hovered just above her almost naked body. Laurent leaned forward—gently pulled the clamps off, first the fingers, then toes, then slowly opened the buttons of her sack of a dress and fastened them on her nipples. "No—no—no—"she stuttered, and begged, dignity forgotten long ago. "Please, no—please—don't."_

"_Will you try it again?" _

_Tears ran down along her cheek. "Ple—ase, I—won't, please, do-n't—please!"_

_His hand moved down, between her legs, and he pushed her panties aside and slowly shoved the last clamp inside her—she whimpered, futilely fought, he whispered into her ear. "If I catch you trying to escape again, your punishment will be this. Remember it, just like this. Accept your fate now, don't fight it."_

_He straightened, and turned aside to him. "Leave her tied up like this tonight, let her think—"His gaze turned to her. "Let her—_feel_."_

_And she felt them, the clamps biting her nipples, the coldness of metal deep inside, she felt them, as the iron burned her flesh, as the leather bit her flesh, she felt them the whole night, tremors slowly ceasing, tears slowly stopping, and she looked at the faint light coming the little opening of her cell. The dawn had come._

_He came then, together with that hollow sound—rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat— his cane tapping on the bare concrete floor as he limped toward her. He dropped his cane, and untied the restrains, picked her up from the table. He gently lay her on the mattress. She grabbed his hand before he turned to leave, tightened her fingers around his wrist, and slowly whispered, "This won't stop me."_

_He gently pushed perspired hair back from her forehead, and nodded, "I know."_

_x_

_She turned her head to side to look at him, tried to understand. She couldn't. "Why?"_

"_It's not enough to survive; one has to be worthy of it." His hand hesitated over her beaten flesh, the wet linen hovering. "Do you think you're worthy?"_

_She turned her head back. "I want to be free."_

_x_

_She looked down at the man behind her feet… She turned back… He has to... She runs._

_She ran… until she couldn't. She collapsed… He had to…_

_She closed her eyes._

_A voice called._

Sarah… Sarah… Sarah… Sarah, open your eyes… Stand up, get on your feet, Sarah, get on your feet, they will come… they will come… they will find you… stand up… He had to… die.

_She opened her eyes._

Pull yourself together, be strong. Be stronger than ever. Be stone. That's your time. No one saw it, no one knows it, nothing changed. Look, everything is still the same.

_She gazed at the stars in the sky, they looked same._

No one saw it, no one knows it. Nothing happened; outside that room, nothing changed.

_She rose on her feet._

_Nothing…_

He had to die so you can live.

…_happened._

She came around, trembling in the grasp of that nameless ache, wetness along her cheeks. She wasn't a lost girl, she'd saved herself. She wasn't a victim. She had survived—her cries grew louder as the pain came to a point impossible to endure.

She wasn't a junkie, no, but she was close enough, and there was only one thing for it, only one remedy for this _illness,_ and unfortunately it was derived from the leaves of coco plant.

She stood up, checking her watch. Hours had passed since she had passed out again. Bruce would have been already on patrol. Later that night, he was going to find out that she'd slipped out but she couldn't bring herself to care at the moment. He might need her help too, three coffins, three victims, the killer might strike at any time, but she didn't care about that either. She took his keys, and called one of the dealers she had made acquaintances with when she had first come to Gotham.

After countless minutes of explaining who she was and how she had gotten his number, the dealer finally agreed to meet with her in the West End. Blocking all other thoughts, she drove downtown.

The dealer was late. She sat one of the benches at a playground, bristling with anticipation, awaiting that feeling, that glorious sensation, when the cocaine hit the bloodstream and the brain light up like an explosion. Then for a brief, shining, immeasurable moment all other things would fade away, everything would be forgotten, there would be nothing else that mattered in the blessed dementia, and that whirring, insatiable, unnamable thing that ailed her since her childhood would stop.

The dealer came and gave his cursed magic, looking smug and greedy, and ready to sell you out at the first sight of trouble. She looked down at the cocaine in her hands.

The trouble was that every time she had been high, that glorious, shining moment was a hair-breadth briefer than it had been before, waning a little more each time until finally there was no relief at all. All one was left with was a bitter ache for more, that craving, like a bottomless chasm.

And that wasn't even the worst part. The worst part was how with a head-spinning speed it turned mundane; how it felt like a real job, showing up every day whether you wanted it or not, knowing everything you would do tomorrow was going to be the same as what you had done the day before, stretching before and behind in an infinity of a monotonous sameness until one day you took it into your bloodstream more than you were supposed to, and then finished a bottle of Absinthe, and you couldn't even decide whether it had been intentional or not.

She looked around the deserted street. God, was this what she was trying to get herself into again? Maybe. At the moment she didn't see why not. She'd been fighting; screaming, kicking, always struggling far too long and all her struggles seemed—pointless now. If Jason had known, he would have looked at her with that knowing look, like he'd known all along it was going to come back to this, and he was actually sad about it. She should have taken his advice, back right there, just right on that bench. She should have ended it. Cathleen would have probably laughed, poisonous, and content that her theories about her once again were proven right, that she was a lost cause from the start, a bad seed. Michael wouldn't have believed; Sarah, the strong girl he knew being a relapsed drug addict? And Bruce… her thoughts came to a halt, as her breath caught in her throat.

Bruce would be dejected; devastated even, his face twisted with agony as if he was physically in pain. Alfred would be understanding, silent but always-giving, helping him to get through yet another _disappointment_. Fox would be—smug as this was so expected, trusting her, placing his hope in her had been a big mistake in the first place.

Before she changed her mind, she turned on the other cell phone she carried and dialed his number. She knew he was going to answer, even in the middle of a fight, even in the middle of catching a mob boss or a serial killer, he would always answer it.

"Where the hell are you?" He might not be nice about it though.

She looked at the white powder in her hands. "Bruce, I'm about to do something really stupid."

"_What?_" he growled out.

"Cocaine."

"Where are you?"

"In a playground in West End."

"I'm coming, wait for me, and—"He paused. "_Don't_ do anything stupid."

Approximately seven minutes later, he was at her side. He approached her silently, took the little bag out of her hands, and pulled her upright. She watched as it got lost behind his tool belt. She looked at his cowl, black painted eyes, his jaw set. "Come, I will bring you back to the manor."

She shook her head, blinking tears back, probably looking as pitiful she felt. "I came in your car," she mumbled. "I—can go back myself."

"Then why did you call me?"

She shrugged, and turned her gaze away but didn't respond.

Bruce didn't question that either, instead turned towards his car. He couldn't leave it outside in the Narrows too long. But he couldn't leave his bike either nor could he drive Lamborghini with his armor. After a second she saw him come to the same conclusion. "Are you sure you can manage it?"

She nodded and hid her eyes again. "Okay," he agreed then his unwavering look willed her eyes back to him. She slowly shifted her head. "Thank you for calling me," he finally said with a soft voice that didn't suit Batman at all.

Before she dissolved into tears, she turned around, and flew to the car.

When she got back, he was already in her room, waiting. He was out of his armor, had showered and put on his causal day clothes. She went to the bathroom, hopped into shower, trying with all of her being not to think about anything, and returned to the room, wearing her pajamas. She sat on the bed.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Bruce asked softly.

"No."

He nodded. "Okay."

She turned to him. "Okay?"

"Yeah."

"Are you not going to, um, push me?" she asked, looking bewildered.

He shook his head and turned to leave. Hastily, she called after him, "Don't." He paused on his retreat and turned back again. "Stay with me tonight. I swear I won't try anything funny. Just stay." She looked at him with widened eyes. "I—I don't want be alone."

Bruce returned her look with a measuring gaze then surprisingly, settled beside her on the bed, his back leaning on the headboard. She leaned back the same way. They stayed silent for a while before Bruce broke it with the same soft, small voice. "How do you know about my parents?"

"I read it," she answered, confused.

He smiled faintly. "No. I mean how you know I blame myself for their death."

"Oh. That. Well, there has to be a reason why you still keep doing this, and it has to be rather personal, more than just revenge or a pursuit of justice. And once when I said to you how Cathleen used to chide me about my mother's death, me killing her at my delivery, you winced visibly, flinched actually, like I slapped you. So, I knew I hit a raw point."

He nodded, not understanding how someone this smart could be this stupid. "Why don't you put me under surveillance, Bruce?" she asked back, her voice was low, barely a whisper.

"Do you think I should?"

"Yes, Bruce… Yes, you really should."

"What makes you think I haven't already?"

"Other than the evidence that I managed to meet with a drug dealer under your nose?" she responded. "I checked it, several times."

He looked at her. "When we made our deal, I decided to trust you, and I'll do it, Valerie. That point has not changed yet."

She gave out a laugh, not derisive, not mocking, just hollow. "That's very naïve, you know."

He didn't point out that naivety had literally stopped her once. There were some truths in life that were the best if they remained unsaid. "Perhaps," he said instead, "but I'll not spy on a—friend."

Startled, she gave him a look, "Friend?"

He turned to her, and his voice didn't hesitate, "Yes."

Friends… She hadn't many in her life; come to think of it, she had never had _any_. She had lovers, acquaintances, occasional partners, or just people she used as means in some way or another; yet he didn't seem to fit into those categories, Bruce Wayne didn't seem to fit to any category at all.

"You already know I'm clean," she said after a while. "I've not used it for years if you don't count a few later attempts. And even when I was doing it, it was only for a brief time. And just cocaine, never anything more serious, I managed to keep myself—_restricted_." She sighed. "I was heavily drinking in those times, and it wasn't enough. Nothing was enough. I already knew drugs, had been using them on occasion, pills and pot and such, so I started to sniff coke. One day I got high while drinking in a night club, and apparently took too much of it, and before I knew it, I opened my eyes in a hospital, in intensive care and then I was sent to a rehabilitation center."

"Those times were—"Bruce asked hesitantly, "After you and your father—had grown apart?"

Taking a tickled breath, she stared ahead then lay down.

"Valerie," Bruce moved to look at her. "Something bad happened to you after he left you behind?" He paused to search for suitable words. "Did they hurt you?"

She felt tears gathering in her eyes as she shrugged. "Unpleasant things happen to people all the time, it's life."

Fury… cold fury filled him as he remembered that those were her exact words after she'd gotten herself out of Ivanokovic's clutches. Possibilities, each more horrible than the last turned over in his mind before another thought surpassed all of others, and he asked with a whisper, "And did you hurt them too in return?"

The question made her lose it. She shook her head fiercely, tears finally falling, "Nothing—"She murmured, her whole body trembling like a leaf, "Nothing happened…."

Dumbfounded, he looked at her. Then tentatively, slowly he reached out and took her into his arms. "It's okay," he said, half waiting for her to push him away, but she didn't, she didn't even try to run for the bathroom, instead she let him, didn't even hug back, she just let him hold her. Something twisted in his chest, and he pulled her closer. "Whatever 'nothing' happened, it's okay," he murmured soothingly, "You did what you had to do to surv—"

She broke out of his embrace with a shriek, pulled half up, her hands braced against his chest as she looked down, tearful eyes widened, terrified. "_Don't talk like that_," she cried out, her hands fisted into his shirt. "Don't be like him, don't be like—me."

There was no need for any clarification for what she meant as there wasn't any clarification needed whom she meant by _him_. Without knowing what else to do, he pulled her back and pressed her tightly against his chest. He listened as her sobbing lessened until she slowly fell into a troubled sleep then listened to her whimpers till they became a lullaby to his ears.

In his dream, she came before Rachel but watched him at the brink of the bed, her white dress glinting in the darkness, tears sparkling on her cheeks. Rachel didn't come, and he watched the darkness, Valerie hovering above him like a ghost.

When he woke up the following morning, she was already gone.

* * *

He went to his own room, showered, changed into a suit and climbed down to find out if she was around. And of course, she wasn't. Instead he found Alfred, waiting for him beside the table where his breakfast already sat ready, looking expectantly at him.

He sighed, sitting on his chair. He took his tea. "Where is she?"

"I was hoping you would reveal that mystery, Master Wayne." Alfred answered, his matter-of-fact voice not hinting at anything other than what was obvious.

He sighed again. "This is an odd day indeed, seeing you worrying about me taking a girl into my bed."

"It was actually _her_ bed, sir," Alfred deadpanned.

Bruce glowered at the old man. "It wasn't anything like that. We just, um, slept." When Alfred gave him a look, he continued. "Last night she confessed she was a drug addict years ago and last night she went to a dealer to buy cocaine. Then she called me. When I found her, she sent me away, telling me she would return home alone since we couldn't leave my Lamborghini there alone. When I returned, she asked me to stay with her and told me how she had started using, and my guess is—she tried to kill herself unintentionally before she was checked into a rehabilitation center." He paused a second to take a breath. "And all of it appears to be related to some issues when her father left her to captivity, where they did very—" his voice hardened, "—unpleasant things to her, to a point that I believe she did something that she feels _very_ guilty about in order to escape that I suspect it might very well have been killing someone."

Alfred dropped on a seat beside him, and after a second, managed to utter. "So where is she now?"

"Honestly? I have no idea." Bruce confessed, taking another sip from his tea. "She left before I woke up. Probably went to shopping. I don't think we'll see her today at all. She slipped too much last night, and will need to recuperate on her own terms. She'll be back when she's ready."

Upon seeing Alfred's suspicious look, Bruce held the older man's gaze. "She called me, Alfred. When I went to her, it was still in her hands. She'd bought it but couldn't bring herself to do it."

He then finally decided to tell Alfred the thing he still hadn't. "When we were back in Ireland, when we returned to the motel after we—buried her father and after you went out, she pulled a gun at me, and threatened to shoot me if I tried to stop her. I _tried to_ stop her, walked toward the gun. She couldn't. I said she was still free to go if she wished to. I even gave her the money, told her the location of the clinic where her doctor was, and said again I wasn't going to stop her if she decided to leave. She couldn't. Do you know why?"

"No."

"She was going to leave. She was at the door when I said I believed in her, trusted her. Her hand was on the handle but she didn't open the door. Do you know what that means?"

"That she has a stability of a train wreck?"

His eyes found his guardians. "I was right about her, Alfred. I was right about her all along. We needed to believe in her before she started to believe in us."

Nodding, Alfred stood up. "May I request just one thing, Master Wayne?"

He nodded back.

"Don't fall in love with her," Alfred requested seriously. "She has better defenses than yours."

Bruce looked at Alfred, dumbstruck. "I—am not," he stumbled on.

"Good, keep it that way, sir."

Bruce kept staring after his butler's back even when he was lost to his sight.

* * *

_A/N: Hmm, where to start? There is a lot of stuff I need to acknowledge for this chapter._

_First, I suppose: The 'Tread softly because you tread on my dreams' in the first author note is a verse from Yeats. :)_

_Valerie's 'sex,sex,sex...' quote belongs to Vala Mal Doran. Valerie's thoughts about love-and-desire inspired by Neil Gaiman's Desire._

_Hands shaking has been always a symptom for withdrawal. And the passage in which Valerie talked about drugs, and how it always ends up was something I read in a Sherlock fic, which was simply amazing. A__fter reading that I decided to make Valerie an ex-drug addict._

_And yes, the syndrome that Valerie is suffering is the infamous Stockholm Syndrome._

_And, yes, I know the whole 'fear toxic' drugged thing incredibly an overused cliche, there is no arguing from me there. But luckily I managed to tie it in a satisfying manner. :)_

_See ya at the next time...who knows when? Perhaps tonight :p_


	20. Chapter 18

_A/N: A fair warning: __Fasten your belts, this is going to be a bumpy read._

* * *

_While someone dies next to you, you can't feel it. This is the world's calamity. Pity is not suffering. Pity is schadenfreude that is felt at someone else's tragedy. It's a breath of relief that it didn't happen to us or someone else we love._

_Erich Maria Remarque,_ _Liebe Deinen Nachsten_

_x_

_They tell us that suicide is the greatest piece of cowardice... that suicide is wrong; when it is quite obvious that there is nothing in the world to which every man has a more unassailable title than to his own life and person._

_Arthur Schopenhauer_

**Chapter Eighteen:**

* * *

She checked her appearance in the glass of the main entrance. The short blonde wig didn't look as hideous as she had thought it would, certainly it didn't look good, but blonde had never been her thing anyway. The thick black trimmed glasses hid her light green eyes much like the hefty suit did her body. It wasn't her best job but she was in no condition to come up with a better one. She gave her reflection another look, and decided nevertheless she looked good enough to pass as a decent doctor.

She climbed Gotham Public Rehabilitation Center's stairs and found the guard. "Dr. Lena Collins here to see Dr. Jackson."

A few minutes later, Dr. Jackson came trotting towards her. She extended her hand once the doctor arrived and they shared a brief yet powerful handshake, each weighing the other up. "Ah. We were expecting you earlier, Dr. Collins," she said, politely yet in a manner suggesting that she didn't consider it good manners.

"Yes, I'm sorry I had to postpone before I could give a heads up. There was a situation outside of Gotham, a personal one and I needed to leave the city. I just turned back," she added the last part after a thought, giving the effect that coming here was the first thing that she had done.

Dr. Jackson smiled. "No worries." She gestured her forward. "Come—I believe you mentioned something about specific cases for your research on our telephone conversation?"

Walking beside the doctor, she nodded. "Yes, abusive childhoods and parental issues with sociopathic tendencies."

"What did you say you are researching?"

"Genetic factors of sociopathy."

* * *

She looked like Valerie again, curt angles, full lips, harshness softened; different, a stranger but a familiar stranger, acquainted, and she wasn't going to open that can of worms, not now, thank you very much. She was still trying to deal with the ones she'd let out. She grimaced, and pushed the visor mirror back forcefully.

What _the fuck_ she was thinking… she didn't have the slightest idea. It had become too much again, and she'd acted before thinking. That was turning into a habit related to Bruce Wayne.

No…that wasn't actually true either. She had known what she was doing, she had been aware of the consequences but she hadn't cared. She hadn't wanted to be alone. And that was hardly news because she'd never loved being alone and she could easily find any company she ever wanted. No, the more frightening thing was that she hadn't wanted any company other than Bruce.

She felt overwhelmed, and stuck; feelings, emotions that she couldn't comprehend nor process were trying to squeeze her insides. If she couldn't get a grip on herself soon, she was going to burst open. But at least now she was functioning again. When she had woken up this morning, she hadn't even been able to do that much. It took two hours in the rehabilitation center listening to a heart-wrenching, dreadfully terrible life story, but she had already begun to feel better. It might be a horrible thing what she was doing but it'd worked last time and so far it looked like it was still working just fine.

She strode the corridor fretfully, one hand holding her bag, while the other held several documents for Bruce to sign for the car she had decided to purchase. She had enough with this car problem. She should already have dealt with it. She entered his office without knocking first and… he was nowhere to be seen.

She went to his desk to press the comm. "Jennifer, where is Mr. Wayne?"

"In a meeting with the Law Department, Ms. Valerie. He might be back half an hour later."

He didn't come back half an hour, or even a full hour later. Swinging her crossed left leg, she waited for him. Exactly an hour and a half later he returned. He faltered briefly in his steps upon seeing her but a second later he collected himself, and continued inside, followed by the Law Dept. director and Ms. Tate. She arched her eyebrows, and looked at Bruce questioningly. Six months she had wasted in Wayne Tower without seeing his office and that tart in a posh suit was seeing it in what… less than a month? She gave Bruce a killer look, and he gave her a quick peck on the cheek.

"Baby, what a…surprise!" he said, sitting in the chair in front of her.

"Why? Am I not still on your payroll?" she asked tersely.

Bruce looked at her. Sensing the tension in the room, the director quickly mumbled a few words about coming back another more appropriate time before they exited the room. "You were never been on my payroll at the first place," he muttered, after the others retreated. "I wasn't expecting to see you this quick."

She held his gaze defiantly. "Why?"

Bruce gave her an unreadable look. She pointed the coffee table on which she had placed the documents for the car. "I brought you some documents to sign. You're buying a new car, a compact. I've had enough of parking the Lamborghini blocks away from my destination and walking or taking a cab."

Bruce's gaze fell downwards. "Okay."

He picked the papers up and signed, and she turned her head to watch outside. "Done," he said, putting the folder back on the coffee table. They fell into a tense silence that no one attempted to break until Bruce looked at his watch, and stood up. "I've been invited into an afternoon tea. Do you wanna come?" _Play along with her game, _he told himself then said something he had never thought he would. "There might be people you'd be—interested to see."

She arched one brow. "Who?"

"Thomas Elliot. His father is throwing it."

She stood up. "Well, in that case, lead the way, darling."

* * *

Leave it to her to_ still_ be drawn to Thomas Elliot like nothing had happened after what had happened last night, despite the Elliot's personal part in the—happenings. One part of him was glad that she'd written off last night as quickly as humanly possible, meanwhile the other part of him wanted to snarl at her because of it. Choosing to be somewhere in the middle, he settled for glowering.

She pulled down the visor and started to apply that damn red lipstick, which he realized now, was something akin to war paint for her. Then she winked at her reflection.

Despite his best efforts, he rolled his eyes.

Getting out of the car to walk into Elliot Tower, he glanced at her. Today she wore a green dress, and her sandals were the brightest red matching her clutch. Bruce suddenly found himself thinking about how ruby earrings would suit her.

They passed through the lobby towards the luxury elevators and went up to Rupert Elliot's office. "Why we are going to Papa Elliot's office?" Valerie asked, her head titled, checking her appearance in the elevator's mirror, hands slowly sliding down her sides.

"He wanted to show me some plans for the Gotham Hospital. Their team is dealing with the plans."

She nodded and started to get out of the elevator. They took a step forward and stopped in their tracks. Just a few feet far in front of them, Thomas Elliot was fighting with a woman; actually they were throwing each other around.

"You, moron, you're throwing me into the fire now but watch that my flames don't burn you too." The woman hissed between her teeth as her back hit the wall. Dark hair, blue eyes, creamy smooth skin, features like they were drawn by a crafty artist; she was… beautiful, Valerie thought, seeing her face clearly. She wasn't one to admit that kind of statement very easily, but there was no escaping from it. She was plainly one of the most beautiful women she'd ever seen in her life, and vaguely reminded her of someone.

With a dirty smirk and menacing gleam in his eyes, Thomas leaned over her. "Yeah, let's burn together."

And quite feisty too, Valerie added as she raised her knee up to hurt him _there_, and smirked down at Thomas as he bent in two with pain.

"Lina—You witch—"

Ah…So she was the infamous witch. Valerie glided her eyes to Bruce, who was watching the scene in front of him with a stunned expression.

Thomas extended his foot toward her and tripped her. She fell down, but catching him at last minute with and she brought him down too. They were at each other's throat for a time before Thomas secured her under him. "Too bad she couldn't get those unique lessons from you, Bruce," Valerie whispered into Bruce's ear.

"You always have to be like this because no one wants you, right? Even your own mother doesn't bother to protect you." Valerie tensed. For a second she really hated Thomas Elliot. "Someone would think you'd get used to it by now, Selina."

Selina hit his head with her clutch. "You'll pay for it, you thick wooden headed fool, tenfold worse." With another swift motion, she threw him off, and managed to get herself out of his grip, and Valerie recognized kick-boxing moves as Selina's feet attacked Thomas. "On second thoughts, she might not need them at all," Valerie whispered as Selina went on with her oath. "Tenfold worse, I swear. I'm gonna make you regret—every minute, every second-"

"It's over, Lina. Accept it." He grinned. "I won."

"Moron," hissing again, Selina raised her leg up and stopped it in the air; her eyes finally spotting them standing in front of the lift. Thomas turned his attention where hers was fixed and he pulled upright too. He looked at Valerie since the first time she'd seen him, genuinely surprised.

"Well, they don't seem to have changed at all," Bruce remarked next to her, averting his gaze from Selina.

Selina righted herself, still looking at them and then smoothed the wrinkles from her dress and adjusted her hair. She picked up her clutch from the floor, and turned again to Thomas. "You don't understand do you?" she slowly said, her eyes cold and promising revenge. "I only start when you say it's over."

She tossed her hair back, straightened her shoulders and started to walk away. She only gave a passing glance to her, raising one eyebrow to which she responded with a raised one herself. Then she turned to Bruce. She waved him off with her clutch, hitting on his upper arm. "Get out of my way, you loser."

Then Bruce—_Bruce Wayne_ dutifully retreated, and got out of _her_ way, Valerie watched with laughing eyes.

"Well, that was interesting," she announced to both men after the dark haired girl.

Breaking out of his stupor, Thomas rolled his shoulders then rushed to her side. "How you have been? You were under effects that vicious drug too, weren't you, Bruce told me so." He cast a suspicious glare at Bruce.

"Yeah," she said tersely. Still not feeling comfortable with talking about _that_, not to mention she was still pissed at Thomas for what he'd told Selina moments ago. Dismissing him, she leaned toward Bruce, who got into his act dutifully as circling his arm around her with a glower at Thomas.

"Come baby, Mr. Elliot's waiting us."

Thomas snickered and turned to follow his witch.

* * *

Rupert Elliot wasn't having a good day.

Upon waking he had discovered that the shares for Elliot Inc. had dropped since last night, and at breakfast Melina was still detached, she wasn't making a case for her little witch, but there was no other way to take that turn of her mouth. Melina wasn't making a case of it, but she was far from being happy. By the time he had left the mansion, the traffic was already a mess because of a car accident at the new crossroad site, and he had ended up spending two hours inside the car before arriving at the company.

Then before noon, they had come, still bickering and fighting, and after fifteen minutes listening to their fighting he had sent both of them away. He had enough, had enough of Selina, had enough of her cunning, scheming little ass. If she didn't want to act like a family then she was not going to be one of the family. He had enough problems with Thomas. He was not going to take shit from Selina too, not any more.

Today was a very bad day, he concluded again, thinking absently. He should have already known though, the last bottle of his special brandy had mysteriously disappeared last night, and Rupert Elliot couldn't possible imagine any worse omen than that. Bottled in the early 80s, 57.1%, OB / Samaroli, that bottle was a legend.

Then after noon, _they_ had come.

Now, Bruce Wayne was how young eligible bachelor billionaires were supposed to be. Very eccentric, very arrogant, and very carefree to the point of irresponsible complacency, but nevertheless sitting on the throne of his family. Despite of his other—shortcomings, Rupert couldn't help but notice that the shares for Wayne Enterprises had been gradually rising since the time the young man had taken his company back from Earle. Whether it had been a miracle attributed to Fox or not, there was something certain, Bruce Wayne was a good son, continuing the legacy of his family.

So what if he was going through women faster than he was going through his shirts, was buying things that were not on sale, was drinking a lot, was being ridiculously unaware of what was happening around the globe or was burning his manor down in drunken fits? If a young billionaire was to destroy family heirlooms, he was better off destroying them in desperate drunken episode. Not because he wanted to find a couple hundred million dollars to open a night club, and his father wouldn't back him up, and he thought putting the family heirlooms on sale would be a terrific idea for his financial problems.

Yes, despite his other shortcoming, Bruce Wayne was sitting on his throne, and he was setting himself a foundation, was trying to do good by his city, and he had even heard the young man had given up going through women… His gaze skipped momentarily to the girl sitting next to him, going through a magazine's pages quickly with disinterested eyes. She was beautiful, even though she seemed a little short in the class department, he observed looking the deep cleavage of her dress, and the way she crossed her slender legs, but that could be amended easily. She would make a very decent queen. He looked at young Wayne appreciatively again.

Bruce Wayne was a good man, was pulling his life back together, life for a young billionaire was harder than most people would believe, having money—that much money was a difficult thing but Bruce Wayne seemed to do reasonably well. Thomas—Thomas had to be like him, Thomas had to stand by his side, find himself a good girl, had to sit on his throne… not try to open a fucking night club just to prove a point to him.

They were family, and he was his son, his only heir.

And his heir should stand beside him.

* * *

Bruce grimaced at the reports from Valerie's blood test. It was definitely a new cocktail; among Cannabis, THC, and the other familiar compounds from the blue flower he noticed a trace of psilocybin in her test results, the chemical compound commonly referred as 'magic mushrooms' these days.

Crane must have people on the outside or gave his secret formula to someone else, or simply someone else from far away had come again to Gotham to play. His grimace grew as the last probability sat in his stomach like a stone. He needed to talk with Crane, needed to talk with Crane before things got out of control. He was getting distracted, more than tolerable. He needed to focus, to get his act together. A serial killer, the Irish still on the outside, preparing to start another mob war, and now he'd let a new drug into the city before his very eyes, and Valerie… let's not forget, Valerie, Bruce thought, his grimace turning into a deep sigh.

Like she sensed that his thoughts had turned to her, she strode into the study, the test results in _her hands_. He frowned. Fox had emailed the results this morning, to him, and she wasn't supposed to see them, at least for now.

"Where did you find the reports?"

"I asked Fox." Bruce closed his eyes for a second, breathing out of his nose. "I was checking the compound with the old fear toxin you have been talking about. This thing mixed into the bloodstream a lot of hell faster, and I was checking the description of hallucinations too. Mine were more vivid, and—"she paused for a second, "—didn't have any connection to my surroundings. The fear toxin's effects break your grasp on reality but don't cause full scale hallucinations out of nowhere."

"This did?" Bruce asked then.

She settled over the couch and answered simply, "Yes," but left the explanations for the nature of her hallucinations there. "The effects of the fear toxin start immediately after the exposure but gradually, this thing was at its full effect in what…ten minutes? It couldn't have been more before things went…" she raised her hands up in the air, twirled them, "wacko." She bit her bottom lip, calculations going behind her eyes, "It's a lot of more potent too. I took in only a few breaths, Bruce, before you dragged me away." She gave him a half look. "And you know, I have—um some immunity to chemical compounds."

Bruce sighed, "Valerie—"

"I'm fine," she cut him off before he could start. "It was a moment of weakness, no need to worry."

He didn't press further, instead turned to look outside, the sun was setting. Soon he was going out. He needed to get his act together. "I need to talk with Crane," he said then slowly.

"Who?"

"Scarecrow," he replied.

"Ah, _him_," she said.

"Yes."

"Hmm, that'd be a little bit of a problem."

"Yes."

"Okay, shoot," she half snickered, half laughed, "tell me what you have in mind."

He turned to her. "I'll need to see Gordon."

* * *

The traffic in the Gotham Hall District was expectedly chaotic at that of day. The buses were crowded with people that were leaving their offices to go to home to do what they did at night, and between them the countless stream of cars lined up dutifully, honking at each other and the hurried wave of people walking towards the metro hub, their heads down, shoulders hunched, carefully not looking at each other's eyes. She let the heavy sounds wash over her, and then she noticed a noise over all of them.

An ambulance came up tailed by a police car and turned down towards Gotham General, parting the crowd around it like Moses had the Red Sea. She stared after the ambulance. It should have worried her at least a little bit but it didn't, and she wasn't sure what that meant. _Lack of empathy_, she thought absently as her phone rang bitterly, its slick screen announcing an undefined caller ID. When had she set it to such a bitter tone? "Yes?"

"Ouch," Thomas's said, "I think you just took my head off with a single 'yes' over there."

She frowned. They had not talked since two days ago in front of Rupert Elliot's office. She guessed he had been _busy_. Searching through her feelings, she decided she was still pissed at him. "Maybe you need more people to do that to you."

"Why so antagonistic suddenly?" Thomas didn't mince words even though his voice sounded like a pout.

"Is there any particular reason for your call or did you just want to hear my voice?"

"Both," he replied without missing a beat then went on casually. "I'm opening my club tomorrow night. I wanted to ask you _personally_ if you'd like to drop by."

She gave a mocking laugh. "I wouldn't dare miss that, now, would I?"

Thomas snorted. "You're too gentle."

Sniffing, she closed the phone and stepped on the gas to the manor.

Bruce was already in his study, probably working on how to get himself into Arkham to have some quality time with Crane. He was going to see Gordon tomorrow night to talk about his plan, the one she still hadn't managed to get him to tell her fully, just little tidbits and odd remarks, that was it. He was trying to make her stay out of this one, she had noticed. One part of her found it ridiculously foolish, one part intriguing, and the last part… moving. She couldn't decide on what part to settle, so she ignored them all.

She dropped herself over the couch. "Don't make any plans for tomorrow night. We're invited to an opening."

"We are?" Bruce replied without lifting his eyes from the reports he was reading, she wondered if they were hers. "Of what?"

"Thomas'," she said. "He's finally opening his night club."

"So he called," Bruce commented.

"So he did."

Sighing, he lifted his head up. "Valerie—"he trailed off.

"Bruce?"

"Okay, let's do this." He drew in a deep breath, putting the reports to side. "Don't you think there is—I don't know—stuff we should talk about?"

Her face bore the best oblivious expression, "Like what?"

"What you're doing is not healthy. Refusing to acknowledge something's existence doesn't make it disappear." He halted. "Believe me, it doesn't."

She bowed her head, brought one hand forth, studying the metallic green paint on her nails. "Well, acknowledging it didn't bring me anything _good_, Bruce, so I think I'll stick with ignoring."

"Maybe you should see someone—"Her head snapped back to him, sharply.

"See a psychiatrist?" She didn't point out the fact that, of course, she'd actually gone to see one. "What exactly do you think I can tell a psychiatrist?"

Bowing his head again, he sighed. "Maybe—maybe," he repeated in hesitance, "maybe it'd help you if you share it with someone."

She leaned forward, her eyes found his. "I assume in this case that someone is being _you_?"

Lifting his head up, he looked at her then his eyes sharpened as if he was making a decision. "I'm afraid of bats."

"Bruce—"She tried to interrupt but he didn't let her, raising his hand.

"We make bargains, trade secrets. So one for another," he paused. "When I was nine, Rachel and I were playing 'finders keepers'—" Her mind whirled fast to the day she found that weird looking stone, with a note attached 'finders keepers', and the mystery unraveled. So it was really related to Rachel after all. "—and I was trying to hide a stone beside the well in the grounds, and I fell down into the cave through it. Bats, they were everywhere, they attacked me. I stayed there for a few hours till my father came to rescue me."

"Every night since then, I suffered of bad dreams, bats were always attacking me. At my parent's wedding anniversary, we went together to see an opera, Mefistofele. The play had some haunting figures, masked, close to bats. I got scared, scared so much that I begged my father to leave and we left the opera house from the backdoor, into Crime Alley. It wasn't named that then, but it was still something close, reeking of despair and neglect."

He stopped to catch his breath. "The man came out of nowhere, holding a gun. He asked for wallets, and my father gave it to him, and then he asked for my mother's necklace, the one my father had given my mother that night. He turned his gun toward her and my dad reacted, and next there was a bang, a lone, simple bang then two more… The necklace broke, pearls scattered all over the pavement. My mother shook tremendously first, then took two steps forward and fell down. Father… just dropped." His voice shook as the next words uttered. "'Don't be afraid, everything is going to be okay.'" He then stopped to clear his throat. "His last words, said to me before he closed his eyes. The man ran away, I waited."

"If I wasn't so much a coward, they wouldn't have been dead," he confessed with a whisper.

She sighed out deeply, stood up and walked to him. "It's like we're really playing some twisted version of Wizard of Oz here." She dropped herself on the arm of his seat, swung her legs across his lap, and rested her head on his shoulder. "You're like what—that Cowardly Lion, in pursuit of courage, and—and," she paused, her voice bearing a jaded, weary laugh. "I'm like that Tin Man, asking for a _heart_." She huffed out. "Who would have thought?"

"I was going to kill him, Joe Chill," Bruce said, "Twelve years ago, the day he was released. I had a gun, was waiting outside the court. Before I could raise the gun, Falcone beat me and nailed him down for his betrayal. I told that to Rachel, and she drove me to Falcone before slapping me. She told me my father would have been ashamed of me. I went to Falcone. He told me things, very logical, very shameful things, and then I threw the gun into the sea, swore that I'd never ever again touch such a thing, and sneaked onto a vessel headed for the Far East."

She stayed silent for a second, "That makes—"then spoke slowly, "three secrets, actually."

He smiled faintly, "Payment in advance."

"You're a devious man, Bruce Wayne." And she sounded like it was a compliment.

He smiled again but didn't answer, waiting. "Well, mine is less tragic," she paused half a second. "I guess. Jason was trying to pull a long con on a diamond dealer, but he came on a sort of wall, so he came to me. We weren't even close at that time, I was, um—trying something different and you know, he talked, said things, and before long I was caught up with him again. They—him and his partner—needed someone to _deal_ with the dealer while they worked on his diamonds, so I—dealt with him, and they dealt with the diamonds. And everything worked fine, or so we thought."

"The partner proved himself to be a complete idiot, he left a trace behind, and then the dealer found us, and needless to say, he was _very_ angry. The partner got killed in the clash, I got a very nasty scar at my back, then Jason and I ended up being thrown into their basement. Jason managed to strike a deal with him; his freedom for the diamonds. He tried to bargain for me too but we took only a few, and it became clear that my freedom price was higher than his and—"Her voice turned cold with fury, and she seethed through her teeth. "Then I found out that he was going to _gift_ me to his South African partners, as a gesture of good will, three years of _servitude_ for the three little stones we stole."

"I tried to escape three times and every damn time got captured and thrown back again. Then I decided I couldn't pull it off alone. So I started concentrating on the possible—suitors. There were two bodyguards constantly in front of my—cell, and one man who were _supervising_ them. The bodyguards were your usual idiots, and I could have them easily, but like countless other things, they also lacked of intelligence, and I couldn't—tolerate any other failed attempt so I decided to work on the other guy."

"My first plan was getting him close enough to steal the keys and then overpower him to escape but wonders of wonders he really wanted to help. He was a decent man, all things considered, born in an orphanage, was a childhood friend of the dealer, who I believed at some point had become his guardian. They were… odd people, had different sets of values. The man was crippled, and you know how children can get cruel. The dealer—Laurent, I guess had protected him, because well, you see, he declined when I offered him to come with me." She drew out a deep breath. "When I asked him why then, why he was helping me, he said,_ 'It's not enough to survive, one has to be worthy of it._"

"I guess he deemed me worthy." She sighed. "They were, I mean, really odd, had a different sense of what's just. Laurent instead of torturing the location of the diamonds out of Jason acceded to strike a deal with him. He didn't believe in torture, says a man under pain could say anything to stop it, for him torture had no point. But he did believe in _punishments_. That every choice has its consequences, and leaving me behind was Jason's punishment for his crime, and being sent to a certain maniac as a gift was mine. For every attempt at escape I was punished and the cripple was the one who—supervised the punishments. Well, I can't say I took it well, but I went through it, and didn't stop." She sighed out again. "I guess it proved my worthiness to him. Cathleen always used to say I'm too much stubborn for my own good, guess she was right."

"What happened to her, Cathleen, is she still alive?" Bruce asked, partly to seize the opportunity to make her talk about that part of her past, partly to getting his anger in control about what she'd just said, as always, details were missing but the implications were blood-chillingly apparent.

"No… She had an aneurysm in her brain, it popped a few years after I ran away, should have been around my twentieth or something." She hesitated. "I went to see her on her death bed, I don't know why. We didn't exchange apologies or anything. Cathleen simply wasn't a woman who would change her opinions just because she was dying. She claimed that I was there because I wanted to prove that I won, and now looking back, perhaps, you know, maybe she was right again."

She stopped, and stayed quiet as Bruce chided himself for breaking her flow, losing to his curiosity and fury. He bowed his head to find her eyes, and she glanced away. "So what happened?" he asked softly.

"So, he wanted to help me but he didn't want the dealer to know about it, so we started to work on my first plan. I was going to attack him when the guards changed, knock him down to steal the keys so he could later claim that he wasn't a willing party in my escape."

"I refused at first, objecting that I couldn't make it out all by myself, but he ignored my pleas, and said that was the only chance I had. So we gave it a try, that night, when the guards switched shift. I grabbed his head, and slammed it against the wall. I wasn't careful. I was on edge, and exhausted, and all my nerves were standing up with dread. The exchange was going to take place a few days later and Laurent—"She paused, her voice faltering before collecting herself once again. "Well, he was very—specific about the punishment if he had caught me trying to escape another time." She let out another deep breath as Bruce's body tensed even more next to her. "I slammed his head against the wall, hard, harder than I needed to, much too hard, and the next thing I knew he went limp in my grip and dropped to the floor."

She stopped again, remained silent for a while before she could go on again. "I know when I see a concussion, a bad one. I felt for his pulse, it was there, faint but it was there under my finger, throbbing, I felt _it_. I felt his life under my skin. I could still have helped him. But I guess you already gathered that I didn't. I looked at him, then took the key from his pocket, took his money and left him there to die." She paused and moistened her lips before she spoke again. "I spent three weeks in their tender care, Bruce, _three_—"She closed her eyes momentarily, "very unpleasant weeks, and he was the only living soul that in some little way cared about me." She blinked the tears back. "I don't care what Stockholm Syndrome says about it. He _was_ trying to help me. But he had to die so I could—live.'"

He started to talk but she cut him off. "_Don't_." She took a deep breath, then said curtly, "Don't say anything to justify my actions." She finally lifted her head off his shoulder to look at him, and her voice carried a clear certainty when she spoke next. "We won't talk about it again." She stood up. "We won't _even_ mention it, and I'll forget." She turned to leave. "Believe me, it is for the best."

_The bank in the garden was sturdy under her, time worn but still in good shape, the grass was green from the newly arrived spring, and the earth smelled fresh from the last rain. She leaned back, and sighed as he sat beside her. "And I was wondering when you'd show up."_

_He smiled, soft, and gentle; she wished he hadn't. "Have you ever known me to miss a party, doll?" He waved a hand around. "I must admit, this is a tad far-fetched even for your standards."_

_She turned her head sharply, hissed out. "Do you think this is an act?"_

"_Don't you?" _

_She gave him a look. _

"_Let's not play that game again, daughter, it's… boring." He looked at her though, taking in everything about her —the dark circles under reddened, dim, unfocused eyes, her shaking hands, face twisted with grim despair… classical addict looks all in good measures. She felt like standing up, turning her back to him and leaving but she didn't find any energy. He stayed silent, keeping his conclusions to himself._

"_And God forbid if I bored you," she grunted at last._

"_I gather you're angry with me."_

"_That's a very good prediction, Jason, pretty solid, hard as a rock," she hissed out. "Now, don't tell me you expected hugs and kisses. This is your making, your own choice."_

"_Ah… expectations… can't run away from those little bastards." He laughed again, horrid, teeth flashing. "But choices… You made a choice, and I made one too."_

"_You left me behind."_

"_Yes, that was a choice too. A very hard one."_

"_I can't imagine why."_

_He sighed then looked in her eyes. "__Do you know why Airlines lecture mothers to put the air mask on themselves first and then the babies?" he asked and continued before waiting her answer, "Because dead people can't save anyone."_

"_I saved myself," she spat angrily. "You just left me behind," then repeated another time because she couldn't stress that point enough. "You left me behind."_

"_Would you really feel better if I died in foolish gallantry, refusing to leave you behind, when I might have a chance to save you later?"_

_She choked out a hallow laugh, and the sound of it even terrified her. "Have you ever been tortured, father?"_

"_Yes."_

"_And can you still ask me this despite of it?"_

"_Because of it… I've been tortured, and you've been tortured too, surely you can understand now why I was trying to slip over it."_

_She shook her head. "Better me than you, huh?"_

"_No… of course not. Your...chances were better. I knew his plans regarding you. He wouldn't hurt you much, besides Laurent doesn't believe in needless torture."_

_She sent him a poisonous glare, and shook her head again. "But he does very much believe in punishments. You know he thought he was punishing you when you made your bargain. I'd like to see him hearing you talk now."_

"_He was," he admitted. "Yet humans… we're not decent creatures."_

_She turned from him, stared far ahead. "No, we're not. I killed a man."_

"_You saved yourself."_

"_He chose to help me. And I left him to die, didn't even blink."_

"_So that's what bothers you?" he asked, eyes searching her face, she didn't turn back. "A curious episode of Stockholm Syndrome?" He leaned forward. "Should I say now that you did what you had to do to survive? You should already know it. I suspect you tell that to yourself every night."_

"_He had to die so you could live," she whispered._

_Jason leaned back, stretched his feet, and sighed out. "This is, you know, getting tiresome. Like a dog trying to catch his own tail…"_

"_I didn't ask you to come. If you want to blame someone, blame yourself. I most certainly do."_

"_Of course, you do." He laughed silently. "Okay then. Just sit here and mope… be a tragic character, gallop in despair, ruin yourself because you can't just bring yourself to accept one simple truth."_

"_Which is?"_

"_Unpleasant things happen to people all the time," he answered her with acuteness. "It's life, and life is not a chocolate box full of different flavors you pick up one at a time, life is not a deck of cards you try your chances with, life is just life. And it isn't fair…it doesn't care…it just happens. If you want to play this game, fine, play it, it's after all _your_ life. But do you see this girl, far at the corner in this lovely place, sitting by all herself, with countless cuts on her body, self-imposed. She's an addict too, worse than you, a heroin junkie. She used to live with her mother and his stepfather, who did very unpleasant things to her, which her mother let him do because she wouldn't disturb the comforts he represents and she profits and the poor girl had to run away and became a prostitute, then her pimp turned her into a junkie for loyalty. Then he beat her to death one day when he felt particularly bad and she opened her eyes in an emergency room; a hopeless case by any standards; and you know what she thinks when she looks at you? 'God, my life sucks, but I could still be her."_

_Her head snapped back to him. "And that's supposed to make me feel better?"_

"_No, it's supposed to make you understand one point." He paused. "Do you want to be this girl who everyone looks at and feels pity and relief at once? The decision falls to you. Will you be this girl or will you get yourself back together?"_

_She turned her head, stared ahead once again. He was right of course, that's what all those people, even all those shrinks thought, even though they didn't admit it… Not in a million, million years, but they all thought about it, even when they felt sorry, even when they pitied, and tried to help, that's what all people thought. That's what the so called sharing, the group therapy sessions were all about, the bottom of it, the heart of it, and everyone used each other. But still…Rage should roam through her, her very being should stand in protest, the thought—even the mere mention of such a notion should be enough to push her back in defense, raise her armor up, but she just lacked the required energy, the acute bitterness had turned into a permanent ache, drilling, hands shaking. She felt tears running along her cheek. "What if I can't—"Her voice trembled, "What if I just—_can't_, father?"_

"_Then don't." He stared ahead too, his voice barely a whisper. "People," he faltered, "people should know to say goodbye when it's time."_

_She shivered, closing her eyes, her teeth biting her lips to stop the sobs coming out. "How—how—don't you—"She forced out at last, shaking her head. "I'm _**your**_ daughter."_

"_Your __death like your life belongs to you, only you. Everyone who tells you otherwise is s__elling you lies."_

"_And would you even sadden, father?"_

"_I would be _devastated_," he whispered back heatedly. "Do you know how many times I told myself it's ridiculous to be tied to you just because I happened to drop __a few sperm upon a random ovary__ at some distant time because of a moment of bad luck? Every time I came to the nunnery, I promised myself it was the last, and every time I came back. You're my daughter, my blood, and I care about you, but it isn't you, this is not you."_

"_Even listening to you is a crime against humanity."_

"_I love you." _

"I hate you."

"_I love you."_

"_God help me you do." She stood up, looked down at him. "I'm not your daughter, and you are not my father. And I don't want to see you ever again."_

_He bowed his head, she walked away._

* * *

PS. I made _Erich Maria Remarque's _quote's translation to English myself. So it might be not 'entirely' correct.

When I wrote this part of the story, I didn't know there is this lovely German word for this...annoying human behavior, s_chadenfreude. S_ince that day, I think I'm in love a bit with German. My next goal in life is learning German, seriously.


	21. Chapter 19

_A/N: A relatively short piece before the storm at the next one. _

_It's time for Mr. Wayne to wake up._

_Enjoy._

**Chapter Nineteen:**

* * *

The door gave in without any struggle and Bruce let himself into the safe house of the dealer that Elliot had acquired his compound. Gordon had made Narcotics to look into the dealer but until now the man hadn't turned up at any of his usual hang outs. This one was the last place his informant had given him, and if it also turned out to be bogus, his informant would be having another little chat with Batman.

The house was one of the filthiest accommodations Bruce had ever seen, and given his usual hang-outs that was saying a lot. The walls were dark brown with filth and grime, and mildew that ran down from the ceilings. Inside the air was rotting, stale and dense with an ailing odor that turned his stomach. Yet the filth itself was tale-telling: no one had lived here in a long time.

He looked around again then found himself half waiting for a comment. Damn her, Bruce thought, frowning. Just a little more than a month, and she had almost managed to change his habit of years. Alfred had taken over Valerie's place for the night, and as much as the old man was for dry humor, and witty quips, he wasn't for constant meaningless chatter. _Silence_ from the equipment in his ear was—distracting.

He turned his wandering mind to the subject again, focusing on the problem. _Focus on, focus on_… He steeled his mind forcefully, walking to the back of the house. There was one bedroom which was clean, figuratively, he exited and walked towards bathroom then stopped at the brink.

Lying in a bathtub, one arm dangling over it, with blood slowly dripping off it, was the dealer, his throat torn open, staring at the ceiling with glassy dead eyes.

* * *

Leaning on the handrail of the stairs, Bruce waited Valerie to come down the hall. He checked his watch. They were already running late, and Bruce's other appointments later that night simply weren't things that could be postponed. He wondered briefly if she was trying tried to be fashionably late.

The opening of Thomas Elliot's club, just the thing he needed to make his already complicated life more miserable. He sighed. He'd turned to react to the things happened around him again, and it was bad, really bad because, even though Bruce Wayne could tolerate this situation to some extent, but if Batman turned to this, generally it meant only bad things.

And as if that wasn't already enough, he was at a loss on how to handle the situation with Valerie. She'd disappeared again after the last night, and he was already sure that when she came down she was going to be collected once again, every single armor she had raised.

Bruce wasn't exactly sure if he should let her do that or not, she was pretty good what she was doing, seemed to be content with her choice too, and curiosity aside, Bruce wasn't sure what could be accomplished by poking sticks in that figurative mud anymore. Ignoring the problem wasn't exactly healthy, but they weren't exactly healthy people. But still… there should be something he could do… everything was so screwed up and while pretending like nothing had happened was the easiest way, Bruce knew deep in his heart that the easiest way, most of the time, wasn't the right one.

He heard the familiar clicking of six inch heels and lifted his bowed head, to stare at her. He could take her being collected back, he gathered with one simple look. She was more than collected; from the black leather corset with the attached fluffy mini skirt and fishnet adorned legs, to the red lips and the sparkling playboy rabbit necklace dropping into her deep cleavage, Valerie had turned back to every inch of her red-lipped-she-devil state.

She crossed one leg over the other and stepped down, eyeing his Armani suit. "Bruce," she drawled petulantly, "We're going to a night club, not a board meeting." She stopped on his step. Leaning forward, her hands flew towards his neck. He narrowed his eyes. "Hmm, let's lose the tie, at least—" She undid the knot, took the accessory off, and threw the tie over her shoulder. "Much better." She patted his chest approvingly then started stepping down again. "Come on… let's go before all the drinks run out."

"No drinks—" he warned her automatically, his gaze stuck on her hips unintentionally for a second as she sauntered away.

She turned to give him a smirk over her shoulder. "Spoilsport." Her smirk grew wider as she caught him checking her out, and she turned back and swiveled her hips even more.

Upon arriving at the nightclub, she tugged her hand along his arm, draping cozily over him, and swaggered in the doors, but her show didn't serve anything because there wasn't a crowd to appreciate it. The night club was minimally decorated, elegant, huge, and… empty.

Valerie looked around, searching for anyone but the only ones around were by the bar… Thomas and his blond… friend, Dylan Thorne, who looked as bored as Thomas looked fraught. She could understand why.

Bruce, flashing his teeth in a grin, greeted the owner. "Nice club, Elliot." He looked around amused, and this time he didn't need to feign it. "Nice crowd too."

Thomas Elliot glowered at him. Valerie removed herself from his arm and walked towards Elliot. "What happened?"

He looked—lost. "I have no idea at all. We set up a webpage, a Facebook group, sent invitations and messages but—"He shook his head.

"Well, you look down on people, Elliot," Bruce helped his dilemma matter-of-factly. "And they don't like you."

Thomas gave him a filthy look. "Then you came."

In response Bruce gave him a leery, suggestive smile as his arm circled her waist. "I only came because Vii promised to make it worth my while."

Valerie gave Bruce an affected smile, mostly to spite Thomas further then turned her gaze to the man. "He gets a special gift every time he says yes to me," she cooed, then smirked. "I'd think you—of all of people—would know how to lure people into a night club."

Thomas looked genuinely affronted. "Tis's a new place, full of potential, the booze is free." He looked around. "It's—how an opening should be."

Valerie shrugged. "You'd need more than that to make people interested in a new place especially if it's not listed in society pages."

She could easily see his jaw clench. "I'm not using my family name to draw people in. It has nothing to do with it."

_Ah, daddy issues._ She could sniff them out ten miles away… She quirked an eyebrow, and prompted further, "Then what exactly is it about?"

Thomas glared at her for a second before giving her a smug smirk. "I see that you think you'd do better than me."

"I _know_ I do lots of things better than you, Thomas." She got closer to him, tilted her head to the side. Bruce narrowed his eyes. "In fact, I know for a fact that I'd fill this place with people in a matter of thirty minutes."

Thomas gave out a big laugh. "Excuse me?"

"Thirty minutes."

He gazed at her suspiciously, eyes narrowed. "Don't talk bullshit."

Bruce came beside her, grimacing, nervous about jumping into the conversation but she didn't give him the chance, instead smiled at Elliot before commenting, "And you didn't even believe that I'd last more than a week, I _kindly_ bring to your attention."

Bruce frowned as Thomas took a step forward. "_Prove it_." And little warnings bells started to go off in Bruce's mind.

She made a step forward but Bruce caught her elbow. She freed herself without pulling her attention from Thomas. "If I win, I'm taking your car."

Thomas looked at her then down at her… lips… Behind her, Valerie felt Bruce starting to come between them but before he could do anything a woman's airy voice interrupted. "Oh… look here… all my old hang-ups meeting with each other." Their eyes snapped back to the intruder. "Quite a party you gathered here, dearest brother."

Selina Kyle strutted toward them, a wicked smile on her lips, dressed in the shortest brightest pink dress in the world, and long black stiletto boots covering most of her legs even in the summer heat.

Bruce let out a deep sigh. This…party, probably couldn't get any worse.

Suddenly Thomas looked very angry and seemed to lose all in Valerie, as he turned to walk to his stepsister and grabbed her arm. "What the hell are you doing here?"

She pulled her arm free with a swift motion. "What? Not be here, and _miss _this look—"She waved her hand over his face, "on your face," she shot back, leaning forward, then let out a throaty chuckle, mocking, "while you screw up yet again, dearie?"

He took her arm again to turn her away. "Well, you had your fun. You can go now."

Her head tilted as she mulled it over. "Ummm—"she drawled. "_No_." She smiled sweetly, pulling herself free again. "You know who called me? Melina. She told me Rupert planned to show up here tonight—to check on you; to see if you _actually_ managed to do something correctly…just for once. This—"She waved an airy hand around and gasped in a mock sadness, "—might disappoint him yet again, I think." Then her face hardened as her voice turned into an icy blade. "Someone might think he would get used to it by now, don't you agree?"

_Ouch_, Valerie thought, the first revenge was taken.

Thomas looked at her. "You're lying."

"Not this time," she said dismissively turning her attention to Valerie, eyes taking everything in, measuring her from head-to-toe. Her gaze paused briefly on the Playboy rabbit necklace, then her lips quirked up with a sardonic smile. "Why offer to help?" she asked at last.

Valerie smiled back, lips not parting. "I'm taking his car if I win."

"Oh! That car? I already won it twice and every time he found some reason to back out." She glanced towards Thomas then turned back to Valerie. "What's the bet's condition?"

"I'm to fill this place with people within thirty minutes."

She curled her lips down, "Easy task."

Valerie agreed, nodding. "Even less time with someone like you," she then said, her eyes fixed on her. At first she had thought of Bruce giving her a helping hand but seeing this woman, she changed her mind. To persuade Bruce to do what she was planning to do would require very serious persuasion techniques whereas she was sure she could get Selina on board quite easily. Besides there was still that 'pink elephant in the room' matter with Bruce, which was better to be ignored for a little while more. "Fifteen tops," she added for the last.

Thomas threw his hands into air. "You both lost your minds. Fifteen minutes."

Valerie sneered, "Tops."

Thomas gave her a look; spoke in volumes in itself. "What if you lost?"

She shrugged as Selina arched a meaningful eyebrow, and Bruce seemed close to losing it. "I guess that means I will finally see your famous view."

Then Bruce finally snapped. He took her arm in a tight grip, and started to drag her away, with a low but sharp, "A moment, please."

He let her go at the corner. "What the hell are you playing?"

"A bet," she shot back, disinterested.

He gave her a hard look, a silent warning edging it.

"You're not the boss of me, Bruce."

He closed his eyes then opened them again. "Fine, if you want it to be like this, Valerie, it's just fine."

Then without another word, he turned back and left her. She pondered it only for a second and truth to be told, she was 'that' close to giving up, and run back to him but something held her back, something she didn't want to fight.

She returned to Selina's side, who eyed her thoughtfully. "What I do get in return?"

Valerie didn't hesitate. "Split the car in two?"

That seemed to satisfy her, for Selina nodded tapping her lips with one finger. "Deal."

Valerie turned to Thomas. "So?"

"Deal," he grunted.

Selina brought her narrow black clutch bag towards her ear, and sneered, "Sorry…couldn't hear you."

"DEAL."

Selina threw her bag towards the closest stool next to her. "You know what your problem is, Thomas?" She walked to the man. "You want to play with mud while wanting to keep your hands clean."

"Like all men," Valerie concluded giving a look to Bruce, and he ignored her. Selina closed in on her again, smirking. "So do you have plan, dearie?" she asked, stopping just a few inches away.

Valerie directly looked into her glassy blue eyes. "Yes, we will stick our fingers in the mud, and get a little _dirty_." Her gaze skipped toward the bar. "Can you dance?"

Selina's smirk grew bigger. "Oh, yes." Then her eyes fell to Bruce who was still standing a few paces away from them, his gaze deliberately fixed ahead. "He does worry, isn't it cute?"

Valerie shrugged. "He does that."

"Maybe he should," Selina shot back, eyes piercing, and cold now, "His girlfriend just made a wager on _seeing a view_ with someone else."

Valerie shrugged again. "We're doing an open thing. Choose the songs," she ordered, "three, I think that will do." Leaving Selina's side, she approached Bruce from behind, and locked her arms around his waist. She rose on her toes, and moved her lips just over his ear. "I know what I'm doing—you don't need to worry about me," she said softly as one hand lowered. She slipped her hand inside his pocket, and when she was about to pickpocket his phone, his hand caught hers tightly. Getting caught with her hand in the cookie jar didn't faze her, in fact she smiled against his ear. "I need your address book, Bruce."

He grunted under his breath but let go off her hand. His telephone in her hand, Valerie took a step back, smiling in victory. She turned back to Thomas who was standing next to his blond friend Thorne, watching Selina pick songs with wary eyes. She slammed the phone against his chest, as a beat grew louder in her ears. She smiled appreciatively, recognizing the familiar tune and daringly suggestive vocals as Selina once again proved herself to be one of a kind, a true Londoner in her core. "You will be the one filming. Connect it to your notebook then broadcast it on your website in a live feed and send the hotlink to Bruce's contact list from _his phone._" She paused, as Selina walked beside her. "All of them, women, men alike. No discrimination."

Selina snickered beside her, as the music picked up its pace and took her hands to drag her towards the bar. "Enough with the chat chit, a clock is ticking somewhere."

They nodded at each other before leaping on the bar. Selina knocked down several objects scattered on the surface—glasses, candles, little pots for aperitifs—to clean her way ahead. Valerie followed her example. Bruce's head snapped toward the bar as Thomas gaped at them openly with his friend next to him. Selina made a turning motion with her hands to urge Thomas to start filming before she swayed towards Valerie. _The girls on the floor, we came to stare, came to stare…_

They met in the middle, and circled each other. Valerie bent her left leg towards her hip, following the other woman's fluid, sultry _and_ experienced movements. She cocked her head to side. "Where did you learn these moves?" Valerie asked into her ear making a full turn around her axis, her back inches apart from Selina's shoulder.

Selina moved closer as her fingers made a long trail down over her upper arm. "Used to be in ballet then got involved with stripteasing for dares. You?" Valerie took a step back as Selina advanced down, rhythm accelerating and waited her to join her. _Get in a fight, on every night, the scratches, the bruises, and the bites…_

One minute… she thought before whispering into Selina's ears, "I used to do it for money."

Selina tossed her head back, laughing. _But I wanna touch, I wanna kiss, and if you say no I will persist…_ And Selina was really moving with the grace of a ballerina, like dancing Terpsichore on green fields, only no innocence but entirely enticing and seductive… _You can come and try, come and try_…

Then music reached its crescendo…

Valerie's eyes momentarily glided down, to the three men, one recording them with a dirty amused look, the other gaping at them looking like he wanted to eat them up whole, possibly together at once, and the last one, her personal billionaire, with an unreadable expression on his face, eyes fixed on her, gleaming, with anger, and with…something she wasn't entirely sure… lust? Long but steady hands grabbed Valerie to pull her attention back to the dance, and Selina purred loudly into her ear. "Let's make another deal?" A beat, a leap, a twist, she continued. "You'll keep your hands off Thomas," she paused for effects.

Looking at her eyes, Valerie prompted, "And in return?"

Selina's eyes skipped toward Bruce. "And I'll keep mine off him."

One glance down then back up to Selina, it was enough to make her decision. She made an half turn around herself, got behind her, and bent down. Her fingertips touched Selina's inner leg from behind then crawled upwards. "I have a better idea—"She straightened her back, curling one leg around her, fishnet over glamorous leather skin, her hand on her inner thigh. "How about keeping them on each other?"

Selina turned around and smiled. "I knew I _liked_ you for a reason." They swirled around each other, bodies touching, hands crawling, eyes fixed. Selina's gaze skipped aside. "We're already getting a crowd," she said satisfied, looking to the string of people coming inside. "Let's finish this so we can have some real fun. Ready?"

Valerie caught her at the waist, the music loud in her ears, her pulse beating fast as she bent toward her. "I thought you were never gonna ask," she murmured before catching her lips in a fiery kiss.

Selina was none too shy: she caught her up by the hair and deepened the kiss, lips demanding and full of challenge. As the music faded slowly, she heard wolf whistles from the floor and clapping. She opened her mouth, their tongues visibly battled for dominance, and that familiar rush spread over her body like a forest fire and she knew it was impossible to deny it now, impossible to ignore its existence, and she held on to Selina as in every cell in her body sang with it.

It was Selina who drew back first, eyes misted with lust. "Your place or mine?"

Valerie only thought about it for half a second. "I say… restroom."

* * *

Bruce watched them disappear together, toward the restroom without knowing what to feel. Valerie and Selina… Selina and Valerie…possibly already doing it… and why, why exactly it was so hard to exhale, like something cold had grabbed him by the chest, and left him without breath.

He shouldn't be bothered by it, he shouldn't _let_ it bother him because despite all the things they shared, what he'd said to Alfred was true, he knew better than to bring something like that into middle of his life, he'd learnt his lesson well the last time, yet he couldn't tear his gaze off from the direction of the restroom, overwhelmed by something very close to sadness and something very akin to lust, in equal parts. It was what Valerie always made him feel now, when she was not making him growl his chest out in frustration, and he should have been used to it too, been past it by now, and he wasn't.

And the night club was already crowded, less than fifteen minutes. With the corner of his eyes, he saw the heir to throne of Thorne Inc., Dylan Thorne approaching him with a sly grin on his face. The suave man stopped next to him. "Interesting show I must say." Bruce snapped his head back to the man. "Granted we _all_ know how Selina is, but when Thomas has started to prey around your chick, I thought he was exaggerating, you know how he is too, his attention always piques when he sees something shiny but...she's quite… _shinning_." He laughed, failing to notice Bruce's clenched jaw or throbbing muscles. "In Liquid Heart people probably charge you a fortune for a show like this." His gaze skipped toward Bruce. "Where the hell did you find this girl, Wayne, in your closet?"

He gave the man an icy glower very uncommon and uncharacteristic for the playboy Wayne, and turned to leave. He hadn't found this girl anywhere. This girl had found him; stealing, blackmailing, kicking and screaming, had wormed her way into the middle of his life, tearing apart every damn thing on her path in the meanwhile.

And at that exact time, when he left her to the arms of the most vicious woman in the world, he finally grasped that perhaps he hadn't been entirely truthful with Alfred. And it was bad, really bad because he had walked on her battlefields, had seen the destruction she had caused with his very own eyes, and suddenly Ronnie the son of Local Mob Boss was talking in his mind again.

"_You can't even say a word… it's not a spell, it's poison, seeping slowly in your veins."_

* * *

Selina was really none too shy; she propped Valerie back against the wall, and grabbed her by shoulders. Then she looked into her eyes warning in a serene yet cold voice, "Don't fall in love with me."

Despite all the lustful desire misting her brain, Valerie laughed. "You don't need to worry about that for I hear it requires having a heart first," she breathed in, "which is I've been informed firmly a lot of times that I don't have."

"So have I," Selina countered kissing her with another open mouth kiss, biting and clashing; and Valerie smiled, closing her eyes as Selina made her way inside. It was like having sex with your echo, that reflection in the mirror, someone so close but not quite, because Selina was close, so close with that same look in her eyes, and with that same pain in her kisses.

Half an hour later, they went to the garage, and stood on either side of the Thomas's car, a lustrous dark Maserati GranCabrio Sport, Thomas measuring them with a wary gaze, and Bruce nowhere to be seen. Then Selina cocked her head to side, and asked, "Do you think we could get it in red?"

So damn close.

* * *

_A/N: Here it is, the wake up call for Bruce. __The song is Soho Dolls, Stripper. Told you, I dubbed this subplot as Gossip Girl-Gotham Style._

_PS. Selina and Thomas are totally 'doing' it. ;) (My adolescence passed reading V.C Andrews. I blame her, truthfully)_


	22. Chapter 20-Part I

_A/N: I was supposed to post this Sunday but then I've realized I should share the love because of the day!_

_Happy Valentine's Day, and don't forget to treat your other significant halves!_

**Chapter Twenty - Part One:**

* * *

When she returned the following morning, Bruce was already sitting in his place at the table for breakfast. Shoes dangling from her fingers, she swayed into the room. Alfred gave her a curious eyebrow up, which she responded to with a wink, dropped herself down on the next chair to him, and threw the shoes aside. With the wrinkled dress, disheveled hair and make-up, she looked like she'd come out of a fight, which in all probability _might_ have been what happened last night. Her hands flew over to take one of his toast which he hadn't touched. "God, I'm so starving," she said munching the bread.

He gave her a look above his cup, coffee; no sugar, no cream, no milk, just the bitter aroma of the caffeine. "Where did you get off to last night?" she inquired, frowning, then turned to Alfred. "Alfred, didn't you teach him he's not supposed to get lost on his dates? It's considered very bad manners." His eyes took on a glare, enough to melt the iron. "Luckily I found some new friends willing to give me a lift back."

He drew his lips forcefully. "Really, what happened to your _new_ car?"

"Oh," she grinned wide, "I left it to Selina; we've decided to get it in red."

"Why didn't you ask your new pal to give you a lift?"

"Who says I wouldn't?"

"Then why we are having this conversation?"

"I don't know…why you are dragging it out?"

"I'm just curious to where _you_ will go with it."

"Bruce," she drawled, laughing, throwing her legs up on the chair next to him, "don't drink coffee, it makes you stuffy." She slanted a look at Alfred. "Alfred, make him daisy tea." She turned to him again. "It's best for the stress, dearie." Just one night, and she was already expanding her vocabulary with Selinas'. He frowned, she grinned wider. "Did you meet with Gordon last night?" she asked, abruptly changing the topic.

"Yes."

"You're seeing him too much, Bruce, be careful. People might get curious."

He grimaced. "I'm taking the necessary precautions."

"Okay," she nodded. "How did it go then?"

"Good," he answered curtly.

"As in?"

"I'm going to break into Arkham."

She dropped her legs, then sighed deeply. "Really, I just _knew_ it. I'm not going to bother to tell you about security protocols—yes, darling, I know all about them—I researched. Your number one fan is living there. The man had an entire city running after my head, of course I researched it." She rolled her eyes. "And you surely know it as well, since you paid the bills for the new security upgrades. We thought infiltrating Ivanokovic's residence was near impossible, now try _entirely_ impossible with contentment. It's not just an asylum, it's a prison, a high security prison, and chances are that it'll end in tears." She paused to take a breath and sipped from a glass of water. "Of course, I'm just stating the obvious here, not that you'd heed it or anything. It's just become sort of a habit."

* * *

Garcia sat behind his desk, waiting for Gordon to come for his appointment. James Gordon, a decent man, a good cop, perhaps a little too good. He looked outside, below there was a new cross roads, work ongoing, a city trying to make itself better.

It had been his main objective, getting Gotham better, and whatever those cynicals said not just for another term in office, but because Gotham deserved this, deserved this change, so many people had sacrificed for this…for years… They couldn't stop now.

Gordon was a good man, a good police officer, but perhaps they also needed the bad ones, a necessary evil. Still he wished he hadn't needed to do this, he wished he hadn't needed to tell lies O'Connor too, and he feverishly wished he hadn't endangered a little girl's life this profoundly; three coffins, three coffins meant three victims; a mother, a father, and he knew exactly what the third victim would be.

Yet they couldn't hide her in the closet, there was too much to lose, too much to lose forever, it wasn't the time, not yet, God forgave all of them, but not yet. Whatever the consequences were, his father had made the right call at the time, he knew, he understood.

He just needed to make Gordon understand that too.

* * *

They all sat around Bruce's work bench inside the cave; Bruce, and next to him, Alfred, in front of him, Valerie, eating a Crunch bar for a _meeting_ to discuss the latest happenings in Gotham. "Ok—uhh-kay," she gulped, "let's start with the Irish—"

Bruce cut him off, "No, our primary focus on the killer—"He turned to Alfred, "Did you check with Fox? What's the situation with sonar?"

"It's coming toge—"

"I disagree," Valerie interrupted him. "Our main focus sh—"

"Excuse me?"

"Our main focus should be on the Irish," she finished as if he hadn't interrupted her.

"Sorry, he might kill the third victim any time," he said sarcastically.

"Yes, and the Irish could start a mob war any time too," she shot back. "Then how many people would end up dead?" She looked at him expectantly, when he didn't talk, she went on. "He lost his money launderer, lost his assets. We pushed him too much. If he didn't get caught now, he would… push back."

He scowled, his face soured, and repeated after a while. "Our main objective is the killer."

Getting angry, she stood up and pointed her finger at him. "I thought Batman is above being that, or you're just after your own vengeance after all?"

"Don't be ridiculous," he snapped back.

"Oh, I'm ridiculous now, am I?" She leaned down then stated accusingly, "You're getting much too personal with this."

He stood up too, leaning down, and Alfred who sensed an argument coming heatedly decided to slip off. Alfred wasn't a fool. He was openly seeing his charge building a blast ready to go off at any minute, even though he wasn't sure whether the young woman failed to understand it or was deliberately choosing to ignore it.

Alfred had always praised himself for his acute judgments on people but he never would know for sure, had never known for sure with this woman. But he just knew this: She was pushing Bruce Wayne's boundaries too much, and one of these days he was going to really _push back_, and then the blast would go off, and he'd truly lose it… Then—well, Alfred wasn't sure what would happen then.

One moment he thought they would end up having sex where they stood, (he wasn't surely a fool, he was exactly aware of the kinds of frustrations he was _cumulating_) and then another moment he thought they would strangle each other to death. Perhaps they would end up doing both, and given their track records Alfred wouldn't really be surprised either.

Before he stepped inside the lift, he heard his charge snap back, "And you're not?"

Ah… and they'd already begun the warm-ups.

Valerie straightened her back, and crossed her arms under her chest in defense. "No," she shook her head, "No, I'm not."

"You've got this fixation on the Irish because he put a bounty on your head."

"He isn't the only one," she bit off smugly. "And I've still got better reasons."

"You're having nightmares since the second death." She opened her mouth. "Don't try to deny it."

She threw her hands in the air. "Bruce, give me a break!"

"I'm not the only one who is getting personal."

She braced her hands on the side of the table again, and leaned in further. "But you're surely the only one who is letting it getting the best of you."

He sent her a glare. "What do you dream of?"

"Do you want to catch this killer because you failed to punish your parent's killer? Do you want to avenge their deaths?"

"Yes," he answered bluntly, "Your turn."

"In my dream another _me_ buries me alive."

"_WHAT?_"

She laughed out at his exclamation. "Oh… it's not even the good parts. When I'm dreaming, I'm thinking myself with my old face then I find her, find my twin in a grove—Wayne Grove, near the pool, and she says to me to look, and I look at the pool, and I see _this face_—" Her hand waved toward her face, "at the surface. Then she grips me at my neck and pushes me toward pool and I fall not through the water but through earth. It closes over me, pulls me under… then, well, I usually wake up there."

His anger subsided, Bruce looked at her horrified with worry. She laughed again. "Oh, you make a cameo too," she said cheerfully, "along with my younger self. I'm trying to count on all the women I've ever pretended to be, and you want to _help_. You're in your armor but without the cowl," she added the last part with a shrug.

"Valerie—" he started but she cut him off, straightened her back.

"You know what your problem is, Bruce," she asked, cocking her head. "You're full of vanity, self-righteous vanity. You reek of melodrama, you always want to be like someone—someone out of a Shakespearean tragedy. You get your kicks from it, and sometimes, it really sickens me, it really does."

He tightened his hands into fists as she turned to leave.

* * *

Gordon left the mayor's office, feeling dirtied. Had he become a dirty cop now? He wasn't sure, all he wanted was to protect this city…and sometimes the truth couldn't be enough, sometimes it had to be more; and they had to be what Gotham needed them to be.

He was the Commissioner. He was changing, his belief was changing, his proprieties were changing, his world… was changing, and perhaps this was the price he had to pay, to try to change something; a city, a world, and an unchanged person couldn't change anything.

That was what Batman had become, what _he_ himself had become, and if Batman had paid for it, he should surely pay for it too, Gotham wouldn't settle with anything less from any of them.

He understood, God helped his soul, but he understood. He just wished he hadn't.

* * *

They returned to the division of labor.

"You're focusing on the Irish, I'm focusing on the killer and the new drug," he said flatly two hours later. Valerie nodded briskly and kept the comments to herself. Alfred remained silent.

She took the reports, lay down on her stomach over the couch, sheets in her hands, legs swaying in the air back and forth, Bruce went down to the cave, Alfred giving him a wary look before hightailed it to his kitchen.

In the cave, he posted every little detail they had regarding the killings and the new drug up on the wall, sticking little pins on each of them then pulling strings across those related to each other, closing his mind off to everything else. Whenever it rebelliously tried to wander away, he forcefully pulled it back to its place.

Valerie didn't come down, and he didn't go up either.

* * *

_A/N: Hmm, come to think of it, this must be the worst update for a Valentine present. Heh! Bear with me. Not a romantic here :)_

_Obviously, Part Two has The Fight. Any guess? Strangle each other to death, or end up having sex, or both?_


	23. Chapter 20-Part II

_"Orphans are collectors, Clark. Losing so much… makes it that much harder to give things up."_

_Bruce Wayne, somewhere in the comics_

**Chapter Twenty - Part Two:**

* * *

Mister Andrews, known as Scrawny around the circle of Gotham elites behind his back, was a man of wealth, raw bone, and gaunt in accordance with his nickname, and he had a big, enormous manor full of wonders, and he wasn't shy to show it.

The ballroom's floor where the dinner party was held was of black marble, declaring pretentiously that there was both wealth and power there. The walls were decorated with several original paintings, busts and sculptures, and it seemed that he had a thing for kittens given that a vast of amount of things shown off around the ballroom were related to several feline Felidae-Egyptian deities; Bast, Shekmet, Nerkmet, all looking down on the ballroom arrogantly from their respective places. Her eyes drew to the little orchestra over in the far corner looking bored as they played, a few couples who were close to making out in the middle of the dance floor, and Bruce was nowhere to be seen.

Even in public, he was keeping his distance, and she'd noticed. It was a little hard not to. She sighed into her flute. Things were getting worse, she'd noticed that too, and she wasn't _even_ talking about professional problems; a killer to find, a new drug ring to collapse, and an entire mob to catch. She hadn't the slightest idea how to make things go back to normal—well, by reasonable standards. Half an hour ago, he'd seen her sipping her champagne, and he hadn't even lifted an objecting eyebrow.

At the moment, she'd let things take their own course with one certain billionaire, and they would see what future would bring… damn it, damn it, damn it… She'd even started to think like a damn air-headed girl; this wasn't her, this wasn't like her.

Her flute clutched tight in her hand, she turned her attention somewhere less problematic. Selina Kyle, stood next to a man whom she would categorize as mediocre on her most generous day, was laughing, their bodies speculatively close. Well, that seemed interesting.

She sauntered toward them, a gentle hint of a smile on her lips. Seeing her approach, Selina flashed at her a twin smile back. They hadn't seen each other after that day when she had left the car to Selina. She hadn't called for it either. It hadn't even come to her mind. This _so_ wasn't like her.

She looked closer at the man. Probably in his early thirties, he had a look of boyish charms with his ruffled hair, thin glasses, and lips ready to pull back into a smile every minute, and he looked quite smitten with Selina too, which was hardly unexpected.

They touched their cheeks briefly, a common greeting in such a gathering. "Well, how have you been, dearie?" Selina asked.

"Well, quite well actually. You?"

"Of course," Selina cooed, and tugged her arm around her—date. "Here this lovely gentleman accompanying me to this lovely event is my new friend John. John this is my _old_ friend, Valerie."

The new friend looked at her, smiling. "Oh… you're Mr. Wayne's girlfriend, right? I—"

"And his bodyguard—"she amended.

"I—work for Wayne Enterprises myself," he finished like she hadn't interrupt him.

She sipped the last drops in her flute and twirled the empty glass in her hand. "Hmm, what do you do?"

"I work for R Security Division; my specialty is in—" Before he could continue Selina interrupted him this time.

"Ah, no, Valerie dear, don't get him talking about his work," she said, her face comically disturbed with faux-dread. "Or else he won't _stop talking_." She took a big sip from her drink, seeing the bottom, then pointed their empty glasses. "Now, sweetheart, be a good boy, and fetch a drink for your ladies."

The geek-boy moved and Selina watched his retreating back with disinterested eyes. For a moment, Valerie weighed asking why she'd shooed him away in such a manner, or what the hell she was actually doing with the poor boy but a half second later, she decided against it. Selina Kyle wasn't simply a woman that could be questioned.

You didn't ask questions to girls like her unless you wanted to be lied to. And a woman's affairs were her own business; and if someone like her carried on with someone like him she knew for a fact there was an agenda, and it involved plots, schemes, machinations, and you didn't ask what they were, you simply unburied them, if you could.

They looked at each other challengingly before Valerie pulled her lips into a sardonic smile. "So did you get it in red?"

Selina's expression broke in a smile immediately. "Oh, yes. You have to see his face. His poor baby—" She purred, low voice humming in mock of sadness, then her face turned serious. "How are we going to do this sharing thing?"

She paused for a moment, thinking of driving to the manor with Thomas's car. Then decided she didn't really need to get Bruce penting up his anger more than necessary, not now. "Keep it," she said, "Maserati is not my thing. Truthfully I only did it to put Thomas in his place."

Selina gave her a curious look. "I bet you're more like a Lamborghini girl."

Valerie gave up a shrug. "Its doors are cooler. And speaking of boy's… rides, I should find mine too, I guess." She held the smile on her lips, and bent forward to put a quick peck on her cheek. "See ya around, sweetie."

"Later," Selina promised.

The geek boy returned Selina's side two minutes later, holding two glasses, and Selina not taking the drink offered extracted herself from his company, and disappeared towards the restrooms.

Curious.

Valerie went after her. She certainly wasn't looking for another episode, that day in the restroom was a one-time thing, to close a deal, a signature of sorts, and a pretty distraction, and it had been too close to a point that it had actually been disturbing.

But Selina was perfect, a perfect pleasure to flirt. She loved how the double-entendres came in with one arch of an eyebrow with her, she loved how even the simplest look with her could turn into the most depraved thing any man couldn't even dare to hope to achieve. But there was no danger, no feeling like she was walking on an edge, and if she pushed enough or in the right places, if she found that angle she would lose it. Selina Kyle simply didn't seem like the type to lose anything _unless_ she wanted it lost.

Selina didn't turn to the left instead she followed the corridor down then glanced backward. Valerie slipped behind a corner and saw with the corner of her eye her taking the direction towards the stairs.

Curiouser.

She was going for the bedrooms to meet her _boyfriend?_ Valerie followed her to the stairs. She got on the second floor, took another turn, and Valerie hid behind the angles, and kept following her. With a hasty pace Selina approached a double door with a big 'A' letter engraved on it. She cast her gown's hems aside to reveal a little black leather case wrapped around her inner thigh.

Her eyes widened as Selina fished out a long piece of steel, and worked on the locked doors. A minute and half later she let herself in. Valerie waited for a full moment, giving her enough time to start whatever the hell she was going to do, then burst into room.

Selina's head snapped back upon hearing her crashing into her party, each hand holding two tiny gold gilded cats, her face distorted with something very close to panic.

"My, my, my," Valerie called as walked into room. "My good friend Selina, you're really one of a kind."

Slowly the high-society thief put the statues down on the desk, and turned back. "Security expert," Valerie commented, "I was wondering what you were doing with him."

Selina shrugged and sat on the bed. "He's the one of the team who supervised the wiring of this place's security. And he _literally_ can't stop talking once he finds some willing ear to listen."

"How did you learn to pick locks?" Valerie questioned. You couldn't question girls like her, but once you _caugh_t them red-handed, you could do whatever the hell you pleased.

"A trick that proved itself useful during my time at college," she paused. "I improved myself."

"Well, I thought kleptomaniacs snatched off the tableware from their host, not things worth millions."

"I'm no such a thing," Selina objected, eyes lit fiercely. "It's not some thrill-seeking riot act. I do what I do for money."

Valerie narrowed her eyes. "But you're already rich."

"Used to be," Selina corrected. "After Thomas broke the news to his daddy dearest, he kicked me off. I'm cast off without a penny. Family," she made a face. "Apparently him stealing the family heirlooms to sell wasn't worse than me ratting him to the police." She waved her hands in the air. "And this life style isn't cheap."

"So you started to rob your friends, instead of finding a job?" she asked, voice laughing.

Selina shrugged. "Working's dull. And spare me the morality talk. Possession is a tricky business. If we go there, we wouldn't stop any time soon. These things don't belong to him either."

Valerie arched her eyebrow. "Several penalty laws and judges might disagree."

Selina shook her head with a meaningful smile. "No, I don't think so. These things—" She clicked her tongue, "don't _really_ belong to him." _Oh_, Valerie then thought, black market. Selina smiled further. "So then the question remains… What are _you_ going to do?"

Valerie smiled and turned to leave. "Lock the door behind you." She paused at the door, her hand on the handle. "And, Selina, don't forget. You owe me one now."

* * *

Well, that was certainly unexpected, in a delightful way. She wondered if she had a plan how to dispose of the statues and she must have one, or else she wouldn't have bothered in the first place. Someone in London, she decided, there must be someone in London, working with her, feeding her information regarding the black market. But how?

She turned back to the ballroom, her mind occupied with the last unexpected event, and she didn't notice Bruce's approach. He looked somber; the expression on his face wasn't the usual typical airhead playboy he usually wore during these kinds of events.

Still brooding. _Of course_. Sighing, she bumped him with her hip. "Cheer up, boyfriend, you have a rep to maintain. And seriously," she faked a lighthearted laugh, "if you keep brooding like this, people are gonna assume I broke your poor heart."

He sent her a hard stare. She huffed with a complete roll of eyes, and caught him by the knot of his tie. She raised her arm up, swirled around, and tugged at him. "Let's go beat some bad boy ass. Your pals, as usual, are such bores."

She took a step forward, and attempted another one, but Bruce clenched her hand tightly and yanked it off the knot. He pulled her back against his side roughly. "Knock it off," he hissed as they exited the Andrews Manor.

She sent him a mediocre 'who me' smile, and leaned on him, posing for the paparazzi that waited on the steps. The cameras flashed and someone behind them wailed 'a kiss, give us a kiss!' Dutifully Bruce bent his head and she lifted up hers for a quick one, then something happened, a tremor, that energy two bodies exchanged at times upon touching, ran through her body. She swayed on her legs, and instinctually Bruce grabbed her waist to steady her. Then _something else_ happened too.

He tilted his head to side, pulled her closer, and deepened the kiss. Shocked but not enough to stay still, she reacted, rising on her toes, and wrapped her arms around his neck. She didn't know what was happening but she wasn't planning to stop to think about it, letting things flow on their own course suddenly seemed like the most terrific idea in the whole world. She opened her mouth. Bruce dived in willingly.

She leaned on him further, and hummed into his mouth, approving. He was a good kisser, she already knew, but she could still show him a few tricks, for instance, he was wasting so much time on the lips whereas there were quite entertaining things to do with tongues and teeth. Smiling against him, she bit his lower lip.

And it earned her not the reaction she was seeking. He tensed then pulled back, breaking their contact, his hands uncoiling her arms from his neck. He pushed her back an inch but with more force than necessary, and suddenly losing her momentum, she started to fall backward, but thanks to all the things sacred and godly, he caught her once again before she tumbled some twenty marble steps down.

Desire forgotten, she sent him a glower, and seethed out of her teeth, "_What_ are you doing? Trying to kill me?"

"Sorry," he mumbled, and suddenly he seemed to find the steps under his feet more interesting. He grabbed her wrist. "Let's go."

The minute they disappeared from the line of press, she broke off his grip, and went to the passenger side. She snapped the door open. "What's—" She started but he cut her off tersely.

"Later."

She sent him a glower would compete against his, and gritted her teeth, but kept quiet until they reached to the manor.

When they arrived he hastily got out of the car, and started to climb the steps two at time without waiting for her. She threw her shoes off, and ran after him. "Wait for me, you idiot."

She reached him in the middle as he turned back. Losing her heels made him even more of a towering figure as he stood one step above her, looking down at her with narrowed eyes sharpened with anger. "What now, Valerie, what?"

"Oh, don't you dare play _that_ with me again, Bruce," she warned, shoving his chest. He shot her a look, she fumed in fury. If he wanted to have _that_ talk here, on his doorsteps, so be it. "Why do you keep refusing your urges?" she asked then declared slowly without waiting his response, "You-want-me."

"No, I don't," he declined flatly.

She took a step up, squeezed herself beside him. "Desire is gnawing your insides, hunger is tearing you apart." She locked her eyes onto him. "_You're ravenous for me._"

He looked at her with ravenous eyes, ready to eat her up, close to losing that reservation, so close to finally give in, but something _again_ happened, and his face closed off. He turned to go. "Stop it."

She flew after him, leaping on the step in front of him. "What if I don't?" she asked back challengingly. She took a step backward, still facing him. "What are you going to about it?"

"Stop this," he growled. "Can't you see when a man isn't interested in you?"

She stopped on her step, blocking his way. "Is that the case, Bruce?" Her gaze fell down, over his crotch, where a stable half-hardness waited. "Cause if you insist then I'll have to point out the _pointing_ thing that contradicts with your words."

Sending her a nasty glare, he took a half turn around her body to unlock his way. She turned around too. "You know, I'd even thought you were gay or asexual for a while for your refusal but thanks to all things good and sacred, your body, unlike you, hasn't forgotten there is still blood in your veins."

That made him turn to her sharply, and using the distraction Valerie once again blocked his way on the upper step. He turned back again to face her. "And everyman who refuses your outrageous advances simply has to be gay or asexual?" he spat out.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, tilted her head to side, and smiled. "Now, you can't say it isn't a logical assumption." She paused. "Even though, admittedly, I can work on both of those after some quality time spent together."

Bruce grunted under his breath, bowing his head. "You're _so—_vain."

"—and right," she finished, smirking, and hopped down on his step, pressing her body to him. He twitched somewhere down there.

"Why is it so hard for you to see why it's such a bad idea—" He halted as she rubbed herself over him. "—getting involved… Relationships don't work for me."

"You don't need to worry about it. I'm not off to market looking for relationships."

That raised his anger up again, even more than before. "So we have sex, then what, Valerie, then _what_?" he barked out, shoving her roughly aside, and climbed the stairs. He pulled the door open furiously, shaking the frame on its hinges but before it could be slapped back to its place, she slid through it.

"Then what _WHAT_?" she screamed after him. "It's just sex!"

Bruce turned around on his heel and growled out, "I don't do causal."

She let out a derisive laugh. "You don't do relationship, you don't do causal." She lifted her shoulders up in an inquisitive way. "What's that exactly you do, Bruce, apart from your hand?"

He threw his hands off in the air. "You're _impossible_."

"Just saying the truth," she said, as Alfred joined them at the hall, a shocked expression on his usually serene face.

He walked toward her, his attention didn't waver even for a split of second from her as he asked Alfred, "Alfred, could you excuse us, please?" He got closer. "Truth, you want to know the truth? What about yours?"

"What about mine?" she challenged, picking up Alfred's retreat with the corner of her eye.

"Do you really believe I'm not aware of what you're trying to do here?"

"Oh!" She arched her eyebrow. "What am I trying to do here?"

"I'm not a fucking shoe," he shouted as grabbing her at the upper arms. "And I'm NOT an _idiot._ You use sex as a weapon to prevent yourself to form any kind of emotional bonding. When things get too much for you to handle, you lure people into your bed." He pushed her back and cornered her against the wall. "Bruce didn't kill those people, let's fuck him, Bruce cares about me, let's fuck him, Bruce knows my deepest secrets, yes, _LET'S FUCK HIM!_" He lost it, he finally, finally lost it, and she had it coming.

He took a step forward, pressing her further into the wall. Her chin was throbbing now; the smugness was gone, wide eyes fixed on him, perplexed. "What do you really hope for, Valerie? If I gave up, if I turned out to be nothing else than a tiny part of that countless stream of people who have fallen to your goddamn charms, do you hope you can finally leave me behind? That you can finally break the influence of whatever the fuck is that compels you to my side?" She looked close to tears, and the growling part inside was content to see her like this; eyes watered, lips trembling, _hurt_, for all the things she'd caused him to suffer. "You're not allowed to do that, do you hear me?" His grip tightened on her, his fingers digging in her skin. "You can't let me down now. You can't leave me behind. I've far too much invested in you."

Something twisted inside her with his last words, and shattered, into fractions. Investment, a replacement for all those things he'd lost; that was what she was, what she had been, _always_, and nothing more… a school project. She pushed him off her, eyes glazed with tears. "And no one should leave you behind, right? Because you're such a poor boy. Valerie should be a good girl, Alfred should hang on your every word, Rachel should have waited for you…"she spat.

Bruce approached her again, eyebrows pulled into scowl. "She was going to wait for me," he snapped coldly. "She was—"

But she didn't let him finish her words. Tears gone, eyes now gleaming like the sun reflected over edge of an blade, she let out rough laughter, countless little bells ringing, each bitter and cutting, and her tone when she spoke carried a faint Irish accent. "Oh… Oh… This is hilarious, tragically funny, of course, _just_ like a Shakespearean play." Just for a minute, for one long minute, she had really thought it was about her, really about _her_. Some fool she was. "Every one of you lies to the other, and then believes your own lies _the most_." She laughed again, harder, her laughter shaking her body.

"She wasn't going to wait for you, Bruce. She didn't want to be involved with your bat-shitcrazy stuff. Dramas, hopeless impossible love affairs might seem terrific in books and movies, but no sane person wants to live in one in real life. She was going on with her life. She wasn't going to wait for you… In fact she was going to marry Dent. And she dumped you with none other than a pitiful 'Dear John' letter, _and _Alfred decided to hide it from you. Do you know why?" she asked but didn't wait for him to answer her question. Bruce Wayne was about to learn how much she was her father's daughter.

She walked closer. "Because you are weak. Because he thought you couldn't handle the truth, because he thinks you need some pretty shiny little lies to keep you going." She pressed herself on him as Bruce grew in silence, tense, the searing fury just seconds ago gone, leaving its place to a numb blankness. "But you still knew, didn't you? The curse of smart people… self-awareness…" She wrapped her left arm around his neck as she snapped his question back at him, voice silky with sweetness. "What did _you_ hope for, Bruce?" She got even closer, inches apart from his skin, and tilted her head. "Did you hope she could save you from _you_? You told her _this—"_The other hand touched his cheek with back of her fingers with a terrible gentleness, her fingers caressing, "—wasn't you? It's never ever really you? Of course, you did. You tell yourself you want someone normal, not someone like you, not someone like me, but there again how long did take for Selina to seduce you back in the days, despite your love for Rachel? Why is it so hard for you to accept that you're not like them?"

She smiled, dropped her hands, and took a step back. They stayed silent for a second then the second grew out into moments, his head bowed, as if defeated. It was done, destroyed, the one good thing in her life, and she finally broke it where it hurt most. She should have known better, she would have left just then, in that motel room… She should have never stayed. She should never have let herself care in the first place.

"A lot of people can say _lots_ of things about me, but none can say I'm weak. Cause I'm not. I'm strong, I'm stone. I don't do sentimental, I don't let myself. I don't need anyone saving me. _I_ save myself, whatever the costs are, in the end I always win," she said finally. "This is not a fairy tale." She walked backward, facing him. "I'm not a little lost princess, and you're certainly not prince charming either."

Her back collided with hard wood as Bruce said wearily, "No, I'm the Cowardly Lion, and you're the Tin Man."

Her hands back, she opened the door, and _smiled, _her sight blurry. "I used to be the Wicked Witch. Some improving we did." She took a step back through the open door. "Goodbye, Bruce."

"Goodbye, Valerie."

* * *

_A/N: Here it is, I finally made her walk out the door. Needless to say, this(minus Selina part) is one of the first things I wrote when I began writing and most of Bruce and Valerie's interactions were designed to fill and build the underneath of this aspect of their relation._

_And don't worry, you won't wait long to learn what happens next :). This must be one good thing with reading a story that's already complete, you get steady updates :)_


	24. Chapter 21

_"I chose this life. I know what I'm doing. And on any given day, I could stop doing it. Today, however, isn't that day. And tomorrow won't be either." _Bruce Wayne, somewhere in the comics

_"It's not about money, or anything. It's about me. It's about who I am, what I chose to be." _Vala Mal Doran, somewhere in the audio books

**Chapter Twenty-One:**

* * *

It's over, she thought as she flew down the stairs, collecting her shoes on the way. Don't stress over it, she ordered herself, putting on the heels. Perhaps she would just leave them behind too, wandering barefoot in the deserted Palisades highway would perfectly fit her current state.

Ok, first things first, she thought again, shoes decisively on her feet. Retrieve the emergency kit, and find some hole-in-the-wall to get blind-drunk. She nodded to herself. Yes, it sounded like an awfully good plan.

Approximately twenty minutes later, she felt her eyes water again as her feet started hurting way too much. Muttering a colorful piece of vulgar language, she took off shoes in her hands, and thought absently that at least the road was good enough to walk in bare feet.

A car, a sports red car, pulled up beside her. The driver rolled down to passenger side's window as he honked. She turned aside to face with a blonde man around his early fifties. "You look like you need a ride," he commented, eyes measuring her.

She looked at him, arms circling under her chests, shoes dangling from her fingers. "Come on, hop in." And hop in, she did.

She rested her back on the seat, huffing. "What happened?" the man asked, curious eyes casting a glance at her.

"My dick of a boyfriend happened, that's all," she exclaimed. "We were at a party, and he flirted with a skank the whole night, and when I confronted him on our way back home, he dropped me in the middle of nowhere."

"What a dick!" the man agreed, "And a fool to leave such a sweet girl like you alone."

And here came the obligatory wooing. She looked at the man. Nope, he had the appeal of a skunk but then again who cared? She certainly didn't. His hands touched her leg, going up towards her inner thigh and she didn't stop him. Two minutes later, they were parked along the curb, and she was already on top of him on his seat, and he just couldn't stop talking.

"Hush—"She pressed one finger on his lips, "don't talk."

Kissing, biting, licking, sucking, "yeah, good girl, just like that," and he still didn't stop talking. Why was everything so hard tonight? All she was asking for was a simple fuck, and she couldn't even get that. Sighing wearily, she head-butted him.

Jesus, it hurt, but pain was good too, and the man blissfully stopped talking. She pulled herself off, and then shoved him into the passenger seat and drove towards West End. She stopped the car a block away, and got out.

The stash was where she hid it, in a basement of some ruined building the Mayor's renovation programs had yet to reach. Thank god for small favors. She opened the bag, took out the identity card, and looked at Gina. As crude as the job would be she would need to alter it, and she needed to dye her hair back to brown-red. She grimaced. She'd gotten kind of fond of her dark hair. She checked other items and found the prepaid phone, the cash, gun, first-aid kit, and the leather wrapped tools waiting dutifully for her. She changed herself into the spare clothes, a simple t-shirt, and dark jeans, slid the bag around one shoulder and went to find the first bar.

It was on the corner. She slid on the bar stool in the furthest corner and waved her hand, "Scotch, fast."

The barmen started to pour the liquid slowly in a dirty glass, and she pulled it out of his clutch and gulped down the whole drink in one swig. "Leave the bottle," she ordered as she put the glass on the bar. Her hands had already begun trembling. She poured another shot, and gulped it down too. And the barman started to look at her suspiciously. She didn't lift her head. Every contact left its trace, she told herself. But it would fade away; it always did. She filled the glass up a third time, her hands shaking terribly, that familiar ache growing bigger, drilling its way through.

She didn't fight it.

Trembling hands found the phone, and the dealer was beside her when half of the bottle was gone. He gave his cursed magic, looking smug and greedy, and ready to sell out at the first sight of trouble. She looked at him. Barely in his middle twenties, bony face with dirty blonde hair, thin and weak he was everything opposite of the ghost that she was trying to bury. She gave him the money, and cornered him into wall, just beside the restroom, and asked sweetly, "Do you happen to have a condom on your person?"

Inside, she propped him against the wall, just with a single command. "Don't talk." She touched his face with her fingertips, and closed his eyes. "Don't say anything."

He just came back from the work, feeling down, looking just for a drink before he returned to his ordinary home to waste away the rest of the night, watching TV, living his ordinary life, and just that time, just when he was about to leave the pub, and of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she walked into his. A gentle breeze came with her, tossing her hair around… She closed her eyes too… and Bruce looked at her, that half smile tilting his lips up… Her head dropped back, the white poison working its cursed magic in her veins, she breathed deeply, and felt wetness over her cheeks.

Her knees touched the floor or the floor rose up to her knees, she didn't know. The only thing she knew anymore that everything left its mark; even birds left their marks printed over the sky, words on the tongue, looks on the face, and Bruce on her.

Time happens, everything changes. She lay down, mind barely registering the dealer's squeal of 'freak' as he was ushered out, barely registering her hoarse breathing, barely registering even herself; just waiting for that never-ending brightness, that glorious breath to come.

She waited, waited, waited… and it never did.

When she came around, hours later, she realized three things.

One, the mark ran deeper than she had thought.

Two, she had changed, for better or worse, she had, and once it happened, you couldn't simply turn back, because no matter how hard you wished it, you just couldn't go back to the past.

Three, if she kept doing this, the future, on the other hand, promised her only one thing.

x

She picked up the first car she saw that could be hotwired, and drove back to the manor. The gate was open, and Bruce was already waiting her at the upper stairs when she arrived at the main door. She dropped her backpack on the lowest step, and looked at him. She ascended with a slow pace, as Bruce descended toward her, his right hand wrapped in bandages.

"You didn't go out?"

"No," he replied gravely.

"I don't want to go," she breathed out. "Things change, people change. It's the way of life. Denying it wouldn't take you to a good place. I can't pretend like nothing changed. I've changed, you've changed me. I don't want to go back."

Bruce tilted his head to side. "Did you rehearse this?"

She gave him a perplexed look, letting out a loaded breath, and admitted, "All the way back."

He gave her a soft smile. "I think you don't do sentimental."

"Just because I don't experience them like the rest of human kind doesn't mean I don't have—feelings," she said, dropping herself on one step. "We can't keep going on like this. We need to—comprise."

Bruce nodded, sat beside her. "I want things to be okay between us. When you left—" he stopped, shook his head, unable to finish.

She looked down at his bandaged hand. "We can be—friends." She gulped. "Truthfully I don't know how to be one. But some things can be learnt, even some emotions can be learnt, and you can teach me. And I'll learn. I've quite set my mind on it," she said decisively, eyes determined, and added, "I can't go back. It's—it's not really—sentimental, Bruce."

"No—no—don't interrupt me." She raised her hand. "Let me talk first. Believe or not, what we do here is important to me, it does good for me. You are good for me. We don't live a normal life, I can't live a normal life; it doesn't work for me. And well, you're a billionaire and I very much like money. Nothing less, no one else could get a hold on me." She turned her head to look at him. "I don't want to go back, I can't go back, Bruce—"She paused then Bruce noticed the same faint Irish accent in her speech again, and realized that it was unconscious, that she wasn't even aware of the slip. "There is only death waiting for me there."

It then finally dawned on Bruce. His hands cupped her face as he searched her eyes. He frowned looking at dilated pupils, orbs less focused than normal, and the redness he had taken for crying at first. "Dammit, Valerie," he exclaimed, dropping his hands off. "Tell me you didn't do it."

She ran her eyes off. "I had to do something."

"And an exceptional something you did, bravo," Bruce said, standing up. "Idiot." Grabbing her arm, he pulled her upright. He looked at her with narrowed eyes, his expression dazzled but his voice was soft when he asked, "Did I really hurt you that much?"

"You mean to ask 'could I really hurt you that much?'" she asked back in her anonymous rich tones, the momentarily slip of accent already faded. "Yes," she admitted, "but you caught me—unguarded. Normally I'm better than this, I'm growing…softer." She smiled faintly. "But would you believe me if I say that I'm glad it happened because we have managed to clear a few things? You hurt me, yes, but I hurt you back too. So we're, um, good?"

He looked at her face, eyes gleaming hopefully. He returned the faint smile, nodding his head. "We're good." He kept looking at her, and god, even wasted, even dressed in simple jeans and t-shirt, she was beautiful, and she couldn't leave him, because she really needed him, and no one else in this world could get a hold on her; something around his belly flipped in a way so indecent for a grown up man—then he frowned. Simple t-shirt and jeans? God, he was really an idiot. "Valerie, where did you find these clothes? Come to think of it, where did you find the money for—whatever the hell you took? And what about that car?"

She turned her eyes away again and explained fast. "The car I picked up on the way. Clothes and money, they were in a bag I had prepared for emergencies when first I came to Gotham. I had a secret stash in the West End." She fished out the ID in her pocket, and showed him. "Here, meet Gina."

He looked at the redhead version of another woman, familiar yet different, and lifted his eyes to his own Valerie. "I like Valerie better."

Her smile grew bigger, full of melancholy but her eyes shone fiercely with a streak of hope. "You know what, Bruce, I like her better too."

He reflected her smile, turned her around, and led her inside, to her home.

* * *

She turned from one side of the bed to other, and then still not feeling satisfied turned back to lie on her back, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. Odd, it was definitely odd, she was bristling with a new found energy; her wasted body had collected itself with a burst of reckless vigor, and she didn't quite know what to do with it.

She frowned at the ceiling, trying to get her chaotic thoughts and feelings in order, trying to grip some sort of balance. After she had come around in the restroom, she hadn't thought about anything other than returning back to the manor, to Bruce, to see him, to talk to him, and now that she'd done it, brought things to reasonable standards she'd hoped to return to her own reasonable standards but she hadn't. She was restless.

Grunting under her breath, she got out of bed and filled the Jacuzzi with hot water, got in and leaned back, her head rested at the edge of the luxury tub as water closed over her body. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply.

She tried to shut off her mind, tried to get her muscles relaxed, then opened her eyes and gazed at the ceiling, and realized that she didn't want to be alone, that she wanted company, and that thing again. She wished to be in Bruce's company. Not even to do something particular, just to be in his vicinity. She wished they could be in his study now, working on research or some other thing, where Bruce would silently bury himself in papers while she fell asleep.

She wasn't exactly sure what that meant other than knowing she wanted it, very much. Momentarily, she thought if she could just go to him and ask she could stay in his room for the night, but after a second, she dismissed it. No, too much… too much… she didn't know, just too much. Anyway, Bruce wouldn't let her get away with that twice, even after what happened tonight. So it meant she needed a reason to get welcomed in his room.

Huffing out of her nose, she was that close to wishing another for an episode with one of Gotham's tell-tale criminals. But of course, everything seemed just fine tonight. Her damn luck.

Playing with her lower lip, she thought of possibilities. If she went on with the hapless posture, she was pretty sure she could even get herself welcomed in his bed but she disregarded that idea as well. It wasn't because she didn't want him, oh, that point had still not changed or that she despised when people pitied her, no, she had never minded pity as long as it suited her interests, pity was good for manipulation, but respect was better for friendship. And she understood now she cared for his friendship more than quickies with him.

And that was one of other things she wasn't quite sure what it meant, let alone what to do with it. Friends… they come and go, that's the whole point of it... or not. God, she really wished she was with Bruce now. So, then… a reason needed to be created, personally. She had to give up another secret. She stood up in the tub, reached for her robe. And Bruce Wayne was really, really one of the most devious men she had ever met. Payment in advance, indeed.

She blow dried her hair meanwhile thinking about what secrets she could give up. Ramirez…? Nope, that was purely work related and she didn't want to come clean with that particular secret yet. Selina's little secret? Not relevant. The deal she made with Selina? Tempting, but still not relevant. What else? Her mind came up with one and she passed on that, getting on another and then…nothing came into mind. She reluctantly turned back to the last one.

Admittedly, it seemed like a good one. Relevant to tonight's episode and actually not a bad idea either. Everyone knew: Confession eased the soul, and reduced the penalty.

* * *

_It's not the same dream this night, but he is still lost in the darkness, lying on his mattress, legs swung at the side of the bed, his feet bare, and chilled under the cold tiles, eyes searching, waiting. And she comes first again, different yet familiar, his Valerie, dark hair, green eyes, gleaming, and smiling that smile; red lips pulling with delight, and light follows her; she pulls the sheet over them, the dark linens turns to white; and there is light, more light. "Don't leave me behind," he pleads, her fingertips running along his face, every contact burns him._

_She promises with her smile._

"Wake up, come on, wake up," the words barely registered as hands shook him, and his reflexes acted first, his arms reached out to overpower the close threat. He turned around, flung it on its back, his hands gripped the throat, then his eyes found familiar light green, widened in shock.

He pulled back instantly. He stared at Valerie, who was lying on her back, looking at him dazed, covered only in short silk lingerie. He averted his gaze. "I thought we've settled that," he bit off wearily.

"What—"she looked puzzled as she pulled herself up, then exclaimed, "Oh, that! Well, we settled that—"she curled her lips down, sitting on her legs, "you know, with—friends."

"Friends do not barging in and wake each other in the middle of night, Valerie," he commented, leaving out especially wearing that kind of lingerie part.

"Don't they?" she asked, one brow arching playfully, suspiciously rather than suggestive.

"No," he replied adamantly.

"Dull," She shrugged then threw him a smile, "But you see we've already started to educate me on the finer points of friendship." She paused, "I assume you'll ask me to knock on your door before entering?"

"That'd be nice," he shot back. "And while we're on the topic, it'd also be nice if you stop snatching my credit card and car too." She made a face, looking horrified. He looked at the watch beside his bed stand, and pinched the base of his nose. "Is there a particular reason to shake me hysterically at this ungodly hour?"

"Ungodly? You almost never sleep before dawn."

"My sleep pattern doesn't change the common practice." He stopped her before she could answer that. "And I did go to sleep before dawn tonight." He looked at her. "What's the problem?"

"I came to cash one of those secrets. I want to tell you something," she announced candidly, swaying on her knees. "Well, honestly, I don't want to but I need to. Otherwise when you find it out, and I guess, sooner or later you will, you will be pissed at me, and then we'll have another exceptional fiasco like we had today."

He closed his eyes for a second. "That's not a very promising start."

"Do you remember you suggested maybe I should see a psychologist? What would you say if I say I'm kind of seeing a psychologist?"

His eyes snapped back open sharply. "Define kind of," he ordered. "Define seeing."

She gave him a hesitant look and spoke fast. "Kind of being a 'co-worker' and 'seeing' more like 'supervising' one of her group sessions."

He pondered it for a second then nodded. "You were right. If I learned about this, I'd be pissed." He remembered her shopping trips, the crowd back there, the sirens of ambulance. "This is not a new thing. You've been doing it since you came back."

"No," she shook her head animatedly. "I swear, no. Just for reconnaissance, nothing more. I didn't actually do it before you came to get me that night at the playground." She bowed her head. "I only went twice."

"You won't go there again," he ordered, there was no need for further explanations. She nodded her bowed head. "You can't use other's pain to make yourself feel—"

"I'm a diagnosed sociopath," she cut him off, "I can't fe—"

"Sociopathic tendencies," he corrected. "You have sociopathic tendencies. And stop yourself saying you can't feel like the rest of humanity." He cupped her chin and lifted her head up. "Remember the girl you saved the first time? You were happy, genuinely happy, the most happy I've ever seen you. Remember that feeling, hang on to it. Would you still use her pain if we couldn't save her that day?" He slid toward her on the mattress. "You wouldn't, and that's why you chose to go there, find people you don't know personally instead of going down in the cave to see the people we've failed. Don't do that to yourself."

"I won't go there again, Bruce, I won't, I don't—want to." She promised heatedly, eyes watering. He thought about it for a few seconds then pulled her in his embrace. He sighed deeply, and his nostrils filled with her scent, summer peaches, her hair was still slightly wet. She would have taken a quick shower before she went to bed, sleep not coming until she had confessed to him. He smiled against her hair, hesitantly caressing it softly. She snuggled even further against his chest, her arms coiling around his waist. Friends my ass, Bruce thought, as he pulled her even closer. Be her friend, he ordered himself, trying to slow down his pulse, and the blood running fast in his veins, always downward. Be someone unique, not a regular guy in that countless steam of people… Steeling himself, he pried her off him.

She wiped unshed tears with the back of her hand, smiled, and his heart ached. He shouldn't be like this, not when he had learned about Rachel just hours ago, by none other than her, in attempt to break him into pieces. He shouldn't have, but he was. Then she asked, voice pleading, eyes looking hopeful, "Can I stay here tonight?" And that was a tremendously bad idea. "I swear I won't try anything funny."

He was that close to pleading, no begging her to try something funny, to give him an opening, give him a reason to pull her under him, and kiss her like there was no tomorrow, burying himself in her, her clutching him tightly, his name on her lips. "Friends do not sleep in the same bed," he said out loud.

The moment passed quickly as she sniffed, wrinkling her nose dismissively, and she looked closer to the Valerie he knew. "This friendship business is getting extremely more boring with each passing minute."

He gave out half of a derisive snort, and offered, "You can take the couch, if you want."

"Hmm…I believe the social norms dictate that I, as a woman, should take the bed."

"I'm 6'2'' and the bed 6'8''; you're 5'6'' and the couch is 6'. So bed for me, couch for you." He gave her a smirk. "It's logical."

Her lips pulled into a facetious smile. "Well, in that case, friend," she reached over him toward his back. "I'm taking the pillow, and the sheet."

She leapt down off the bed, each hand holding one of her prizes, and dropped herself onto the couch. She ruffled the pillow, raising her arms upwards then turned around a few times before she began talking again. "It worked for me once. When I was in rehab. I used to be like a walking epitome of bad example. 'You think your lives suck, well, think that you could be her.' I had three options: accept being that girl, pull myself back together or—end it altogether. Despite of all of it, I couldn't bring myself to—" she let out a deep sigh, "—do it, the rest was hardly a difficult choice."

Bruce gazed at the ceiling, lost in thought, then he turned his head to look at her, and finally said, "That's your father talking, not you."

In the sudden silence, Valerie gaped at him with an open mouth, close to shock. He straightened, eyes burning with fury. "Your father—your father—"he exclaimed, "Valerie, he told you that?"

She didn't talk for a moment, then shrugged. "He was trying to help me in his way, I guess."

"That was the unique suggestion you mentioned?" he asked, remembering their conversations back in Ireland.

Valerie nodded. "He found me in the clinic, we had a talk… It didn't go well… I was very bitter and… hurt, and he wasn't particularly remorseful either. Then at last for my—problems he offered me those choices. I told him he wasn't my father, and I didn't want to see him again." She sighed as Bruce looked horrified. "I know in his particular way he loved me, Bruce. He couldn't help it, in the same way how I couldn't help it, but I think in the end, he just preferred to see me dead than seeing me lost in that way." She paused. "Some researchers strongly suggest that sociopathy is congenital as well."

"He is too?"

"Close enough," she said with a shrug, "Actually, worse, a hell lot of worse. I don't know if he was diagnosed or anything, but don't let that cheerful attitude you saw fool you. Jason hadn't a heart in his body, not even of stone."

Bruce's jaw twitched, "I'm not." He paused a little, "Valerie, did he force you to… do things?"

"Force me?" She looked at him. "Never… it wasn't his way. And truthfully he didn't need to. It was just enough for him to talk, didn't even need to lie. Do you know what they say about the devil?" she asked, "When the devil wants you for something, he doesn't tell lies, he just tells truths then waits for you to find your own way to hell, that was his way. That was partly why I didn't want to see him again, I guess. I was… afraid." She paused again. "He always knew me better than I know myself."

She turned on her side to look at him then said slowly, deliberately weighing each word. "I think if he saw me now, he would say you're turning me into a dissocial subculture sociopath, and he would even find it amusing, I'm sure."

"I assume by dissocial subculture here you mean Alfred and me?"

She smiled. "The best company I've ever had."

"Well, Valerie, do you want my honest opinion—?"

"Do you have any other kind?"

"Whatever kind of sociopathy you might have," he continued, ignoring her interruption. "You're not like him. You have a conscience. Not a common one, that's sure, a little bit shaky and clumsy, but in the end you do have one."

"Yes, yes, I do," she agreed, and sighed. She'd taken Michael's seashell after all. "I used to be better leaving things behind. I grow old." They fell silent before Valerie put it an end to it with a tentative, long, "Sooo?"

"So?"

"What about you?"

"What about me?"

"What did they diagnose you as?" she asked, and rolled her eyes at the crease that appeared in his brows. "And don't frown so much, Bruce, you'll really get wrinkles." She paused. "I imagine that's what friends do too, sharing the past with each other." Despite all the things she said, all the determination she claimed, Bruce couldn't help but notice the dryness in her voice every time she mentioned friends. "I believe you have some diagnoses on your hands too."

"I used to see a therapist back in the day, before I—disappeared. He threw out a lot of terms for my mental and spiritual wellbeing, but at the end failed to supply me with one. I think he just didn't want to scorch the sole heir of Wayne Empire with something." He pinched the base of his nose. "People think Batman does what he does because it's some kind of obsessional urge, something compulsive, impossible to deny. Perhaps it is, perhaps not. I honestly don't know any more. But it's not important. Because this is my choice, and I make this choice every night. I choose this life every night and I can give it up every day too. And some day I will—just not today, nor tomorrow."

_I can't not…_ He remembered the words he'd told her, now seemingly coming from ages ago. His gaze slid to the left, to his Corner of Death where the picture of his parents, Rachel, the people he had lost, waited for him in their silver frames, and then he realized something else. She was really her father's daughter; the worst, the most dangerous kind of manipulator in the world.

Even now, even when she looked close to the edge, perhaps even unintentionally, she was still manipulating him, and much like her father she wasn't using lies to get to him. In fact she was using only truth; the most painful ones, hard to confess, even harder to deny.

He looked at her. Misted eyes fixed on the ceiling, she was staring, her expression lost in thoughts. Nothing less, no one else could get a hold on me, he recalled her words. Normal doesn't work for me. I used to be better at leaving things behind. Yes, she was manipulative but then he realized so was he. Nothing less, no one less could have handled her.

The silence stretched out to the point that it became a living creature between them. He drew in a breath then broke it, standing up. "Would you like to help me teach some manners to some punks who need it desperately?"

She was on her feet instantly, letting out with a shaky breath. "Oh, please."

* * *

Burke scowled down at two dossiers in front of him. "Okay," he asked her, "pick one; the cab driver or the fiendo?"

Pam thought for a second, truthfully any break from the serial killer would be welcome, but naturally a break in Homicide meant only one thing; another murder. "Cab driver?" she questioned absently.

"A fight for the tip getting out of control," Burke said, twirling the pages of the dossier. "He claims 'he tried to make a fool of him', five bucks…"

"A murder for five bucks," Pamela said softly, but it was at least something rational, monetary reasons were always easy to comprehend, easy to understand, easy to accept.

"A murder because life sucks," Burke answered, lethargically. Surprised by his tone, Pamela lifted her head, looked at his dim eyes, and somehow, it relieved her to see him like this; Burke was one of the most insensible people she knew, and if he could look like this, it must sure as hell be okay for her to feel like this. "I'll take the fiendo," she announced.

As she went toward interrogation room, she went through the dossier, reading first the accused's declaration, quickly scanning her eyes over the letters, trying to understand what had happened.

Inside the man was sitting behind the wooden desk, arms braced on the surface, bent down, his lawyer sat stiffly beside him, the pen in his hand had already started to scratch things in his notebook.

She pressed the tape recorder, asked the required identification quickly, and he answered flatly. Her fingertips ran through the dossier again, "He was your friend," she said, frowning, "Your other friends claim that he was your best friend."

"He was," the young man admitted.

"Used to stay with you, with your family, people say he was absolutely a delightful person, a good person, couldn't hurt even an ant."

"Yes, he couldn't."

"They said you always get into trouble and he always saved your skin, they claim he always looked after you."

"Yes, he did." The advocate gave his client a pointed look, but the murderer ignored it. Pamela already understood the young man wasn't going to deny charges.

"Did you kill him?"

"Yes."

"Did he do something bad to you, to anger you, offend you?"

He shook his head. "No. He was the best friend any person could ask for."

Pamela leaned forward. "Then why, why did you do it, why him?"

He lifted his head up, and looked at her eyes. "Because it was him. Because he could always forgive, no matter whatever I did; would always understand, always want to help, never say fuck off, because he had to be always that good, because he always could be that good; naturally, without trying, without struggling, without conflict, like it was the easiest thing." The murderer then turned his gaze, stared the wall far ahead. "I hated him for it because whenever I looked at him, I saw the man I could never be."

Pamela sighed, thinking that she should have picked the cab driver. Money was better, much better.

When she returned home, close to dawn, she took out the tiles on the floor with her hands, and planted an ivy seed in her personal graveyard, in her greenhouse, where three flowers had spanned over half of her apartment. Then she lay in the middle of her Garden of Death, and thought that she had been right, she had been right; why should anyone give a crap about humanity at all?

x

_The wound in her shoulder tingled as her flats made soft sounds over the hospital tiles, and she wanted to scratch it, to still the tingling or to make it worse, she wasn't sure. Pain didn't disturb her, she felt she needed pain—she had to feel pain, for what happened, for what she'd caused, she deserved pain, even though she knew she didn't._

_She looked at the flowers in her hands. They didn't seem appropriate, but what could she bring her, what should she bring her? It was a shame no one taught people how to act in such a circumstance; it was really a pity no one taught anyone anything worth knowing._

_No one taught how to deal with pain, no one taught how to deal with guilt, no one taught how to deal with remorse, and what to bring to a woman, a dead man walking, who was poisoned by her husband, with whom you were lovers, who tried to kill his wife with a slow and painful death instead of getting a divorce because he was afraid of losing her patronage, losing her money for his research, who claimed that he did it for you, because he loved you but then tried to kill you when you didn't go well with his love and plans._

_The wound in her shoulder tingled again, and she wanted to rip it out of her body, out of her brain, out of her memory. Scowling at the flowers in her hands, she dropped them in the waste bin. There was nothing to bring to such an occasion, and even if there was, flowers, colorful, lively flowers, surely couldn't be it._

_She was thin, weak, and sickly pale; overall she looked as close to death as she was. She refused to go with morphine, she wanted to be in her mind, even though it meant pain, lot of pain, she wanted to be herself. Upon seeing her, she scowled, or at least tried, then squeezed out as much as her tight throat let her, "How… how dare you show up here?"_

"_I—"she started, then hesitated. No one taught how to apologize either, and saying 'I'm sorry' seemed meaningless. "I—"The sentence trailed off even before it was started… There was nothing to say._

_The older woman looked at her with scorn, with hatred, with malignity, and with everything else, yet her cracked lips twisted with a smile, and she froze, she froze where she stood, at the brink of the door, at the brink of a cliff, where she couldn't see the fall below her feet. "Just a couple of minutes ago, I signed the papers for euthanasia. It'll happen tonight."_

_Her feet trembled at the edge. "But… you can't…"_

"_Who the hell are you think that you can say anything about my death?" she rasped out, voice like poison, much like the thing inside her veins._

"_I never asked for this—"_

"_I don't care," she replied simply, words coming out with difficulty, and rasping. "I've shut everything, even the tiniest bit related to your research down. Tomorrow morning with me, all of your hard work, all of your life working will be gone. Everything will be undone, left to dust."_

_Then she fell, tears followed, "But you can't… it's not for me… not for us… it's for… humanity."_

_A laugh ripped itself out of her throat, a sound from a nightmare, and it terrified her as it shattered her insides into million pieces. "Do you really think I give a crap about humanity anymore?"_

* * *

The following morning Bruce woke up by himself, Alfred sensing her presence in his room by some inhuman intuition had dutifully stayed out, and he had more to do because they still had to make time for that talk. Last night, after Valerie had left he hadn't been particularly in his right mind to confront him, and when she had come back, he hadn't cared. She had come back, nothing was more important than that.

His gaze fell down on his bandaged hand. He had punched a wall last night in a fit of desperate anger after he wasn't quite satisfied by throwing the whole bottle of some twenty year old whiskey; his first alcohol consumption after Rachel's funeral, and then his gaze skipped over to the couch.

He got up, and dropped on the floor, doing his push-ups; up and down, up and down, his mind trying to order his erratic emotions and thoughts. He could deal with her, and he was going to deal with her; up and down… because the alternative that Bruce now saw with a perfect clarity was horrifyingly worse.

With tremendously shocking amounts of manipulations their life had bonded to each other, had scorched itself on each other, had ended up tangled to a point where it blurred where one ended the other started. Detaching the bond, severing the connection seemed impossible to achieve as Valerie had already experienced, and he had only to bring her to accept that point, break all of her reserves completely until she had fully admitted it, because Bruce had already accepted that inescapable truth, and Alfred, of course, was right again; she still had better defenses.

Speaking of the devil, Alfred came in, his vitamin mix in his hands. He rose to his feet, and looked at his butler. Alfred actually fidgeted, the first time he had seen the old man do such an unfamiliar gesture. He took the glass out of his hands, drank and set it on his bed stand.

He went to his bathroom, took a quick shower and when he returned Alfred was still waiting for him. "Why didn't you tell me, Alfred? Do you really think I'm that weak?"

He shook his head. "No. I didn't tell you because sometimes truth can't be enough, Master Wayne, and you needed—you deserved something more. But I was going to tell you, someday I was, then she came…." Alfred trailed off.

"How did you convince her not to tell me?" Bruce inquired.

"She thought you were refusing her advances because of Rachel, I told her it was not the case."

"You told her what?!"

"That you don't pursue relationships of a causal nature." Bruce closed his eyes. "And I also mentioned that if she had told you about it, then you might have questioned how she could have acquired such an item." Alfred paused a little. "She saw my point."

He opened his eyes. "So you threatened her." Why every person in this manor had to go behind the other's back was lost to him at the moment.

"It's proven itself a very useful tool dealing with her, Master Wayne. Even you can't deny that."

"Where is the letter, Alfred?"

"I burnt it after she found out."

He frowned, putting his white shirt on. "It was for me, you had no rights." Alfred stayed silent. "You try to protect me, I understand that. And I appreciate it. You are my family." He took a step closer. "But don't go behind my back again. You're scared of her, I know, you think she might hurt me, and yes, Alfred, she might hurt me, she's already hurt me, but I can't give up on her. I saved her life, and she's been saving mine too since I went to collect her in the warehouse." He searched the old man's eyes. "You know how it was before she barged into our life."

That was subtle but Alfred, of course, understood what he meant. He had been there after all. The butler shook his head. "Ai, Master Wayne, I told you not to fall in love with her."

Bruce stared at him then admitted, words slowly getting out of his mouth, "I can't not." He walked toward to the door. "I just need to make her admit the fact that she can't not too."

Alfred sighed. "You always need to have a crusade, Master Wayne, don't you?"

They exited out of the room together, Bruce wasn't replying Alfred's quip, instead he said, "You know she's like a modern hell-bent Mae West—"then stopped.

She was walking toward him in the hallway, her hair up into a tight bun, looking collected in her usual stunning self. A little smile slowly appeared on her lips as she saw him, and with that sight Bruce's stomach dropped a little bit. He needed to get her accept that… He needed to… "I'm the latest version of Mae West, dearest friend; improved and," she tilted her chin, "in a whole new package."

He arched an eyebrow. She tugged her hand through his elbow, walking along the corridor, as Alfred disappeared behind a corner. "And last night you were very happy to see me," she said, softly laughing low in her throat. "And there were no pistols involved."

Bruce, slightly, just slightly rolled his eyes. "What did you take, Valerie?" A lot of things had happened last night but they needed to deal with that too, he didn't forget. He wasn't going to let her escape this time.

She faltered on her steps before recollecting herself. "Cocaine," she paused, "I can deal with it, Bruce. Don't get worried."

Bruce gave her a look, frowning. "You're not dealing with anything at all. You just simply ignore things until you reach a point that you can't."

She stopped and returned his gaze. "You can never fully recover from an addiction, and I'm an addict. I am not a junkie, Bruce, and cocaine is reasonably easier to resist than some other stuff, but it's still the same principal. You just learn to live with it."

"You'll start on stimulants," Bruce answered despite her objection, voice steady, and determinate.

"There is no medication that works properly for cocaine addiction. The physical effects are lesser than physiological ones but… God, Bruce, you must have already known this stuff."

"Yes, it's about will power, which is something you have gallons of. Look, I don't want you running to drugs every time we don't agree on something. I will talk with Fox. We can put you in rehab here."

She made a face, and said curtly, "Not Fox. We can deal with this together, he doesn't need to know."

"Why do you despise Fox so much?" he questioned, eyes searching. "Every time his name gets mentioned you make that face."

"I just don't like black people," she said, waving an airy hand back and forth.

He merely gave her a look. She bowed her head, the tip of her foot poking the floor. "He doesn't like me," she then confessed, her voice barely a whisper.

"Well, Alfred doesn't really like you all that much either, but you two can get along."

"No, Alfred and I… we—tolerate each other but Fox despises me. That's a difference. With his stupid belittling glances and with his 'I'm all better than you' attitude… If he wasn't so much a dickhead to me, I'd already—" She stopped dead, lifted her eyes to look at him.

"You'd have already left Gotham," he completed for her as a heavy stone dropped in his stomach. She turned her gaze off him, and shrugged uneasily. "Are you still mad at him because he screwed up your plans and forced you unintentionally to stay?"

Her head snapped back to him. "What do you want me to say, Bruce? That I'm glad it happened? I don't know. I don't know how my life would have been if I had left Gotham, and I don't care. I don't dwell on the things I can't change, I don't second guess. I'm here now, that's the life I'm having, and that's all that matters to me."

Bruce sighed. For every step they took ahead, it seemed they went two back. He decided to focus on the apparent problem, and tried to explain. "He doesn't despise you. He's a good man, and a good friend. Like Alfred, he just wants to protect me because he's worried about me. Because that's what friends do, they worry about you, and try to protect you." He paused to look directly at her eyes. "If someone tries to hurt me, wouldn't you want to protect me?"

"You spend your nights prowling over rooftops, beating people to a pulp," she said with a reasonable voice. "There is always someone who wants to hurt you."

Well, that was ominous. "That's always a possibility," he admitted and pressed further. "But let's say if that possibility grew a little more into the territory of an—inevitability?"

She remained silent for a while, her expression thoughtful as he could openly see every wheel in her mind turning, assessing that possible inevitability, then her eyes sparkled with a sudden dangerous flame. "No. I wouldn't like it, Bruce."

His pulse grew faster as the heat in her voice wrapped him. "Yes," he breathed out, "Because you wouldn't like to see someone that mattered to you getting hurt."

* * *

He hadn't told Fox. They had gone through the different kinds of stimulants for maintenance treatment, and much to Valerie's chagrin he'd decided on dexamphetamine. When she questioned how they would get a prescription for the drugs, Bruce gave her a look, and said evenly he was going to deal with it.

Pulling a thin smile at him, Valerie then went through with it.

She twirled the yellow-brown 5mg capsule on her hands, and frowned at it. Then she threw it in her mouth and swallowed it waterless. "You know, I might end up addicted to these things," she said after a while thoughtfully.

Bruce looked at her. "I'll give them to you, personally, one per day." And he was going to keep the rest of it under lock and key but he left that part unsaid. He sat on the table next to her as she arched one eyebrow. "You don't need to worry."

"Bruce, your subtlety, as always, just flatters me," she shot back while picking up the remote control to turn on the TV set. She went through the channels fast, without properly seeing what was on, Bruce bowed his head to read the papers in front of him then he heard Valerie _gasp_, and Vicki Vale's distinctive voice declared monotonously, "The killer that buried two people alive in the parks during the last few months was caught this morning by a result of an—"

Bruce snapped his head up, stared at the screen. A man, homeless, arms fidgeting, his wool black beret twisting around in his hands was looking at the camera as two detectives from MCU escorted him to a patrol car. A crowd had already gathered, shouting and booing, yet the man was smiling big at them, and extending his hand to someone approaching. "The reports by several hidden informants claim that the suspect is a homeless Syrian man, who was questioned a couple of times after 9/11, and the GDP are now looking into Al-Qaeda connections—"

Bruce grimaced. He remembered the man well; he was one of the eye-witnesses for the first killing, as he was wasting his nights in Puckett Park, and he was a very unlucky man. He'd been accused wrongly during a witch hunt after 9/11 and he bore no ill intention, no threat, even though his mistreatment, and even if he had wanted, he wouldn't have. Bruce knew, because he had searched him, thoroughly. And Valerie knew it too because he'd made her search him too, very closely, and she exclaimed, cursing. "I don't believe it! Bastards—"

Bruce fished out his phone and sent a message to Gordon.

* * *

_A/N: Bruce's words of Batman being his choice of course an alteration of his comic counterpart, the thing Valerie said about the devil how an angel described Mr. Lightbringer in Lucifer comics, Pamela's none teaching us anything worth knowing is something I read or see somewhere long ago but the Joker fell in love with me if I remember from where!_

_I could talk about this chapter and what I tried to do for no end, but don't worry, won't bother you. :) You might now fully notice that most of my characters are really screw up people, 'the Heart of Darkness' kind, and trying to do their best what they have, some managing, some failing. I wanted to show that Bruce and Valerie, (and the others) aren't the only ones who are struggling with 'life', in somewhere a cab driver is killed because of a tip, and in somewhere else someone kills his best friend because the said best friend is just a good person. _

_You might also notice that Boy's story beginning to seem like Harvey Dent/Batman/Gordon situation, which is of course intentional, only Mr. Wayne is out of the equation now._

_The story will pick up the pace now, very as we're closing to the end._

_See ya at the next one._


	25. Chapter 22

**Chapter Twenty-Two:**

* * *

"They are covering it up again," Burke fumed as he drove towards the City Hall District, "Whatever happened in the past, they're covering it up again."

Even if Bullock hadn't given up talking he would have remained silent. Truthfully, what could he say? They were covering it up again. "And with that wacko nonetheless…" He hesitated and then went on with a softness that was hardly expected from him, "Poor guy. First they probably made him crazy, now they frame him for murder."

In times like these, despite his many shortcomings, he remembered why he loved Burke like a son. Underneath of that log blunt personality, there was something so fiercely fair and loyal; something despite all of his insensibility made him a decent human being, not to mention one hell of a homicide detective.

He parked along the curb and Bullock lifted his head to look at the clear sky. On the doorstep of the fancy building, they read the professor's name, and Burke pressed the bell, still mumbling to himself about the unfairness of the life.

The door was opened by a curvy blonde secretary, Burke's eyes momentarily checked her large bosom, and after a second his eyes darted away, and the base of his neck faintly reddened. Entering, Bullock shook his head.

Jenny gave a thoughtful look at the young man, measuring him, and seeing him reddened, she decided even with his enormity, he was actually a cutie. Then again, it had only been two weeks since she had broken up with her boyfriend, and these days every man who had the exact opposite features of him would have seemed like a cutie to her.

"Coffee?" she offered, more sweetly than necessary.

"Yes. No sugar, no cream." Burke answered then added after a second thought, "Thank you."

She smiled, went towards to the kitchen, not neglecting to put an extra swing in her hips. The Professor came in at exactly three o'clock, sharp as ever, and greeted the men. "Ah, Detective Bullock, I presume," she said directly to the older man, who ignored her cordial greeting. "I was waiting for you. Come, please, let's get inside."

The Professor actually looked worried for a change. Jenny smiled again.

Inside, the Professor waved the Homicide Chief toward the armchair, and seated herself opposite of him. "Hmm, okay, the Commissioner talked to me about… your situation. I understand it, I understand you."

Bullock lifted his head to stare nastily at her but the woman—with that gentle warm look in her eyes—didn't get his warning. "I do understand that living may seem pointless now, all the horrors you witnessed, and then your loss… but the first step of getting better is expressing yourself."

After such a statement, Bullock sent her a glower that he reserved only for child killers. This time the woman got it. She pulled the report from her clipboard. "The report isn't the problem. I signed it already. I wanted to communicate with you. The Commissioner is worried."

Another stare, this time softer, he tore the report out of her hands and left the room with a terse nod. Inside the waiting room, he signaled to Burke who rocketed up on his feet, and turned to leave then Burke's animated voice stopped him at the door. "Chief—I'll back in a second."

He had already started to run into the Professor's office as the secretary climbed to her feet, calling after him, "But, detective, you need to have an appointment first."

The girl glanced at Bullock helplessly who in return shrugged indifferently. He had long given up on trying to stop Burke's eccentrics. She ran after him, toward the office.

When Burke barged into office, the Professor lifted her head from the document she was reading, and Jenny jogged inside behind him. "Sorry, ma'am, I tried to stop him—"

"It'll only take a few minutes," he cut her off. Her gaze found his, and Jenny decided that the detective wasn't all that cute , not in the least.

The Professor nodded. "It's okay, Jenn." She left, sending a furious look at Burke. The Professor looked at Burke with the same exasperated expression, and when she spoke it edged her tone. "What's the problem?"

"I don't have a problem," Burke scowled. "I'm very normal."

"I don't make differentiations like that."

Burke's scowl grew confused. "What kind of differentiations?"

"Like normal and abnormal."

He nodded. "Right, 'kay, I see," He nodded again in a way indicated that he hadn't. "So…I have a friend, who might have a problem." He looked at the Professor, who urged him to talk further with a wave of her hand. "The thing is that this friend lost his daughter three years ago. She killed herself on her twentieth birthday. She arranged for him to meet with her at a café to celebrate her birthday then threw herself down from the roof as if to punish him."

Ah… The Professor thought. "Yes, there's a powerful inclination of revenge and/or punishment that underlines almost every case of suicides."

Burke nodded again. "Right. Now, the first six months were really… hard, he was on leave, and he lost himself in alcohol but it was normal, it was really hard for everyone, and we all drink. I still haven't gotten over it myself, but it's life… and there is death too, I mean, life goes on, and stuff—" He trailed off to start again. "He goes on, he returned to his job, does his stuff but—well, he has other troubles now. He still hasn't accepted her death. He doesn't go to her grave; he didn't even go to the funeral in the first place. A few weeks ago, after an unfortunate—accident, he gave up drinking, he only drinks beer now, but he's getting a lot more withdrawn, he's almost stopped talking now, only expressing himself with looks and gestures… so I was wondering if there's a—remedy for this—illness?"

The Professor sighed, shaking her head, her Parker in her long and boney fingers. "I see… Truthfully that's not exactly my field of expertise but I can tell you—" She tapped the Parker on the desk before continuing. "You shouldn't think of the troubles that are caused by this kind of loss as an illness. Losing someone close affects people differently, and everyone's grief is personal; some give up on people, give up on talking, some see the person they lost everywhere—"

"Well, my friend does all the things you're saying, doc," Burke cut him off.

"But it isn't something particular to your friend. My point is that some give up on talking and some don't stop talking; some pretend like it didn't ever happen, some can't stop thinking about it. Some can't get over to the grave, some can't get out of the grave. Some want to make the others feel the loss they're feeling, to reduce it to a common thing, some develop an obsession for saving others." She drew out a breath. "My point is that coping mechanisms differ for each person. But it's not an illness, not a thing mental or physical." She shook her head. "Let me rephrase; it's not something can be cured with a medication. It's just… life."

Burke, though, scowled. "I thought there still has to be something we should do about it." He looked at the Professor. "I dunno, doc, it comes to me like he needs to accept her death. You know, this was the thing I wanted to ask you. Say if he sees her grave, do you think it'd help him?"

The Professor looked thoughtful as she mulled over the idea in her head. "You can never be sure in these cases, but, no, I don't believe it'd be worse for the Chief."

Burke's face hardened. "I wasn't talking about the Chief," he replied flatly. "I was talking about… a friend."

She smiled kindly. "Yes, of course. My bad."

"Thanks, doc," Burke nodded curtly before leaving the room. "You've been a great help."

* * *

"He didn't kill those people," Batman growled somewhere behind him. Gordon jumped a little, and turned around.

Batman was… furious, as impossible as it sounded, more than usual. "He gave his confession," he said, turning his gaze away.

He took a step forward, and Gordon wondered briefly where this conversation would lead. "What are you trying to cover up?"

Gordon stayed silent for a second in which he thought of the twenty years he had past in the force, and the last three ones fighting with this…warrior shoulder to shoulder, then said slowly, "Nothing."

He would have understood, if he had talked, if he had explained, Batman, he of all people would have understood. Because that was what Gotham needed them to be, now, in this hour, always Gotham, their fickle mistress, but James, not Detective Gordon, not the Commissioner, but James, a simple father who owed the life of his son to this man didn't want him to.

When Batman turned his back on him, and disappeared in the night, his mind vaguely wondered about that saying…the one about good intentions, pavement, and hell.

It seemed fitting, and the irony of it left a bitter taste in his mouth.

* * *

Bruce crashed into his chair after walking out of the dressing cabinet. "He's lying to me."

The words were soft, uttered in hushed tones unlike his unnerving rasp. Valerie lifted her head, and drew in a sharp breath. The sorrow she saw in his eyes, the pain latched on his features… Suddenly she felt furious, felt anger rushing through her veins. She wanted to hurt fundamentally everyone who had hurt this… unique man to this point and then she realized he was right. You really wouldn't like to see someone that mattered to you hurt because—it hurt too, seeing them like that, it hurt you back. Letting out a shaky breath, she bowed her head. "A commissioner," she said slowly, then paused, "well…is a commissioner. He's probably trying to protect his charge."

His gaze found hers under her bowed head. "We need to find the other two."

She lifted her head. "Ok, shoot. What's your plan?"

x

"You must be kidding!"

He gave her a look, a full Bruce Wayne brand.

She waved her hands around the cave. "You're talking about going through the whole city's security cameras for a period of more than a month!" she exclaimed. "How much time would that take?"

"A lot," he replied, pinching his nose shyly, bowing his head a little, then he gave her a sheepish look. "Please?"

"What are you going to do then?"

"I'll focus on the Irish—don't give me that look; you're the one who was arguing that we should focus on him."

* * *

Pamela watched the morning news with tears in her eyes, as the watering can in her hands paused above the flowers, and the single seed of ivy slowly growing through her walls. It was wrapping itself around the flowers, her graveyard, and she'd realized that death was like ivy, it curled around you, crawling up through your life, slowly yet determinately, its clutch firm and evergreen.

She pulled out a drawer, took one manila folder out, and drove towards County. It took one hour and twenty minutes to convince the officer on guard to let her see him, before he finally caved; he owed her one, although he didn't like it. One hour and twenty three minutes later, the guard returned, saying that the boy didn't want to see anyone.

Pamela pulled a white sheet of paper in front of her where she sat, and wrote down just one question.

The guard returned with him.

They were left alone inside a small interrogation room, and she sat on the simple wooden chair, leaned against the table, and then asked questionably, "You really think yourself as a victim, don't you?" The young man bowed his head. "Does it feel better now? Or does it feel null, numb, purposeless?" He didn't lift his head up, Pamela leaned further to find his eyes. "Can you feel anything at all now?"

The young man still didn't lift his eyes. "Do you know her name, or is it better not to know… not getting things… personal?" She threw the photos on the table. "Her name was Stephanie, but everyone used to call her Stef. She was sixteen years old, but I believe that you already knew."

"Don't," his voice barely recognizable under a strong Hispanic accent, he mumbled. "Please, don't."

"No," she declined curtly. "I think you should know. That much you owe her. She wanted to be a vet, she had stopped eating meat two months ago," she went on. "She was allergic to strawberries, and she was waiting for John, her class mate, to ask her to Homecoming. She hated her father, she hated her mother, she hated her little brother, she pretty much hated everyone, expect John."

"She was quite the drama queen. She wasn't perfect, she was perhaps even a bitch. She thought no one understood her, she thought no one cared about her; she was—despite her family—ordinary, just a sixteen year old girl, full of foolish problems, full of stupid worries, and so full of life, full of potential." She squeezed her hand into a fist and hit it on the table. "Until you ripped all of it out of her."

"Did you feel those in your revenge too, did you feel those as her blood ran out of her veins, did you feel those while you held her in your arms while her life faded away?"

"STOP!"

"No!"

"What do you want from me?"

"I want you to answer my question, Diego," she paused. "Do you really feel like a victim?" His gaze skittered away, and he bowed his head again. "The—nerve, the arrogance to think of yourself as a victim," she seethed, shaking her head. "How dare you insult them like this? Beautiful Isabella was a victim, Bitchy Stephanie was a victim, you are not."

"What do you want from me?" he asked, crying.

"I want you accept it." Her hand reached toward his chin, gentle, her fingertips barely touching, and she lifted his head up. "You are no better than them."

"I'm worse," he whispered. "I'm a monster."

She dropped his head, nodded, and stood up.

One hour after she left County, her contact called and said, yelled, that the boy had killed himself, cut the veins in his wrist with a sharp stone he had found in the yard, and Pamela closed the phone without saying anything.

She drove to her home, opened her door, planted another ivy seed and lay down on the floor. And she felt relieved.

* * *

Her eyes stinging with tears of fatigue she gazed at the computers screens that were divided into twenty little sections, with each showing a day simultaneously. Her feet were propped on the table, and with one hand, she reached for the opposite shoulder, and massaged her sore muscles, sighing loudly.

Once this thing was finished, she was going to buy a spa all for herself for a week, or even better she was going to make Bruce buy one. The images ran quickly before her eyes, but she still caught Bruce entering the cave out of the corner of her eyes. "How is it going?" he asked, stopping next to her and holding out a glass of water.

"Boriiiing," she drawled as he extended the yellow brown pill on his palm, she took it absently, threw it in her mouth, and took the glass from his other hand. She swallowed in one big gulp, and handed the glass back to him.

"Are you still having nightmares?" Bruce inquired, taking the glass out of her hand.

"Bruce," she whined. "Not now."

He set the glass on the counter, and asked again. "Are you?"

"Well, last night I saw myself breaking a nail, can you imagine?"

"Val—"

"I'm fine," she interrupted him, all trace of mocking gone. "I'm sleeping like a baby, more likely I'm just dozing off, which reminds me—Bruce," she paused, "how do you feel about spas?"

He shook his head, walking toward his cabinet. "Hey, I'm being serious here," she yelled after him, draping her upper body over the armrest.

x

Sitting on her chair in front of the computers, Valerie munched on triple cheese sandwich Alfred had prepared for her, and she stifled a yawn. She looked at Alfred who sat next to her, dutifully staring at the divided screens. Today she had decided to rest her eyes a little bit, and left her place to Alfred for fear that she would be much too wasted to notice even if there was something there.

Alfred was following the screens with a determined scowl on his face when Bruce walked out of the cabinet, armored, and ready to go out. He pulled the cowl down, and went to apply dark grease paint under his eyes. She approached him, eyeing his job.

"Will you be covering tonight?" he asked her, his fingertip caressing one section under his eyes, but his fingers weren't slick enough to do it properly.

"Yup." She took the grease from his hand, turned his face from the mirror toward her. "Alfred is dealing with the cameras. I'm cutting slack for myself tonight. What happened to your brush?"

"I don't know, I couldn't find it," he replied, gazing at her suspiciously behind his cowl.

She brushed her forefinger over the grease then smeared the paint with her fingertips along the ridge of his eyes. "No worries. I'll give you one of mine," she said smiling a half smile then stepped back. "Ok, done, all good to go."

"Thanks," he murmured.

"Will you make a routine patrol?"

"Yes."

"Will you be seeing your informant?"

"Yes," he paused, "Valerie, what's with the twenty questions?" He frowned, narrowing his eyes. "You're not planning on doing something stupid, right?"

She slapped the paint on his chest. "No, just trying to be friendly," she bit off, affronted, "though your trust in me is astounding." She turned back, went to sit on her chair.

Bruce walked to her, Alfred's eyes followed him. "Sorry," he mumbled softly.

Wrinkling her nose up, she turned her head to side, and pulled up a file on the screen. He reached for her chin to turn her head towards him. "I'm sorry."

She raised her eyes up and giggled, Bruce scowled. Then she started laughing. "Sorry," she said, soft laughs still coming out of her lips. "You look just ridiculous in that armor when you're not threatening." He scowled further, she waved her hand off to him. "Off you go, catch some bad guys."

x

He didn't look ridiculous now, he looked very menacing; a dark wraith, ready to strike, Bruce thought to himself, waiting his informant. He'd never looked ridiculous in his armor anyway, that was just Valerie being her annoying self. She was being curious, or she was worrying, he wasn't sure, he couldn't be, but something was happening to her, it was in plain sight, and it was making him… content, very much. Had she really offered him one of her brushes?

That stuff was very precious to her, he'd already gathered that, and the thought of her being willing to give up one of those for him…it was ridiculous, he was being really ridiculous, it was just a brush, just pile of hair pile attached to a long wooden stick, he was reading too much into it, and hadn't she given up all of her stuff before she returned to Gotham when he had gone to take her back?

Yes, the stuff had been bought by him to make up rooms for other things had been again bought by him. Sometimes, he wondered if she had left her stuff in Wales only to spend more of his money.

And he really should have stopped thinking of her, when he should have thought of something else, like why the hell his informant was five minutes late. Then below the alley where he was crouching on the rooftop, a child, around seven or eight years old, came jogging, and screaming, "Batman…Batman…"

What the hell…

He leapt down, flying through the air as Valerie asked, "Whu—ats hupp-ieng?" with muffled words.

Ah, she was again eating. "Nothing," he rasped out.

"Thut-"she gulped down, "that doesn't sound like nothing," she paused, "that actually sounds like a child?" she asked, confused. "What's happening?"

Good question. He landed in front of the child, and growled out to both parties of his audience, "Silence."

The child obeyed his command, and so did Valerie, after an exaggerated huff. "Why did you call me, boy?"

The dirty blonde child extended his arm towards him, where a piece of paper dangled between his fingers. "Sammy told me to give you this."

"Where is he?"

"He couldn't come, he's afraid," the boy's little shoulders trembled as he fidgeted, "eyes watching him."

He took the paper out of his hand, "Where is your home?"

"On 23rd."

"Are eyes watching there too?"

"Yes."

He pulled up with one hand, aimed his grapple gun with the other, "I'll take you 21st, can you go alone from there?"

"I can go back alone from here too."

"Hah," Valerie sniffed with a laugh, "He's cute."

"From 21st?" he growled.

"Yes."

Three minutes later, he dropped the boy at 21st, and opened the note.

_They get the shipment in three days on the West Bank._

x

"It might be a trap," Alfred said.

Feet propped up on the couch's back, Valerie curled her lips down, "Well, it wouldn't hurt anything to give it a look."

Looking at the screen, Bruce nodded, "Yes."

"You know, next Thursday is my birthday," she said abruptly.

"Is it?" He frowned, "I mean, really?"

She dropped her head backward over the couch armrest to give him a look. "Bruce, one of the perks of having several identities, is that you can have as many birthdays as you want. For instance, at the beginning of this month Felicia was having her twenty… eighth." She threw him a sultry smile. "A proper lioness."

"Twenty eight?" he asked suspiciously, eyes still fixed on the slim, skinny young man walking on the screen, the gum in his mouth popping.

"_Yes_," she stressed, "another perk, you can decide on your own age." Bruce smiled faintly as he fast forwarded the images. "I think it's him, he looks like it," her finger pointed the man at the screen, "and there is gum."

Half an hour ago she'd called him down to the cave, claiming she had found something, then demanded they go upstairs when Bruce and Alfred arrived, declaring she was taking a break. Bruce had transferred the data to the computer in his study, and took her up.

"Yes," Bruce said finally, "It looks like him."

She dropped her legs down, turned on her side, and pulled her legs up to her chest. She stifled a yawn with her hand. "Told you." She tucked a hand under her chin and closed her eyes. "I'm taking a nap. Poke me in an hour."

He watched her as her chest started move up and down with rhythmic breathing. She seemed so at ease, so relaxed, so at... home. He smiled, then caught Alfred's stare. He stood up, left the study Alfred on his tail, a smirk on the lips of the older man. "What are you smirking at?"

"You, sir," Alfred replied with an amused tone, "I don't know how your plans to get her to accept things are going but she's certainly getting you to accept a few things."

Bruce gave older man a tense look. "Such as?"

"Her personal Alfred," he quipped, "in attendance."

Bruce scowled. "I am not."

Alfred slanted him a glance. "'Bruce, my pills, water, darling, please; I'm starving, can you fix me a sandwich, I'm taking a nap, poke me—'"

He scowled harder. "That sandwich was just a one-time thing."

This time Alfred laughed. "I'm relieved, sir," he went on, "You moved from blackmails, threats, and insults to mild flirting, like normal human beings. It's quite… endearing."

x

Lifting up on one elbow, she was sprawled on her side over his workbench, in the middle of his tools, as Bruce prepared a couple of bat shaped shuriken. He tapped the edge of one against his fingertip while Valerie looked doubtful. "Are you really sure it'll work?"

"Yes," he answered without averting his gaze from the shuriken.

"Deliberately letting him know that he's followed?" She frowned. "I mean, it's a good thought, an ego boost, and it'd work too, but well, you're _Batman_."

"It'll work," he repeated. The man seemed to be the kind.

"How long will we hold him here?"

"Not long," he lifted his head up, "I'll make him talk quickly."

"Hmm," she said, then propped her other elbow under her too, and twisted herself on the larger part of her stomach as one long slender leg bent over the other. She reached out with her other hand to touch the curved blade's edge. "Bruce, teach me how to throw these things, will you?"

His gaze fired as he watched her body twisting, and he was glad Alfred wasn't here to observe this particular fine example of _mild flirting_. "Shuriken," he murmured. She nodded, and catching his flared gaze, a little smirk slowly appeared on her face, "and no." The smirk grew into a pout. "You'd hurt yourself."

"Not if you teach correctly."

"Valerie, this isn't some street smart you can pick up in a matter of days."

"I always say, you never know what you can do until you try," she smiled, "and Jason always used to say I'm a natural talent."

He gave her an exasperated pointed look. "No."

"Hmm, putting down the self-esteem," she commented, "that's not very friendly." Bruce gave her a bland look. "You know, I've been doing a little bit of side research on-this friendship business as well." She smiled at the wrinkle appearing on Bruce's brows. "Do you know there happens to be a TV series called _Friends_ more than a decade ago… and do you know what I discovered after a quick survey? At one point, more than one actually, all of the protagonists seemed to be sleeping in the same bed." She arched her eyebrow. "What do you say to that?"

He put the shuriken aside on the table, and crossed his arms over his chest. "How long did you wait to throw the sleeping… arrangements in my face?"

Her lips drew into a cat-smug smirk as she leaned further on her elbow towards him. "Don't be dreadfully unimaginative Bruce. I'm quite positive _sleeping_ wasn't the only thing they did."

Bruce forced himself to give her a disapproving look instead of a lustful one, and closed his eyes for a second. She smiled, drew herself up and swung her legs down on either side of his. Then she laughed wearily. "Ok, I admit. I was dying to say that." She lifted her eyes to his. "Be careful tonight, 'kay?"

He held her gaze. "Everything will be fine, don't worry."

She nodded, then stopped and flinched back. "I'm not worried."

He merely looked at her, she looked back then he nodded gently. "Come, let's prepare, the moon is fading."

She rolled her eyes, hopping down. "Do you _really_ have to talk like a Shakespearean character?"

* * *

His gum in his mouth, popping, Bubble Gum strode off the darkened back streets of what passed as a wretched hive of scum and villainy in Gotham: The Bowery. A perfect place for perfect individuals like himself; no curious, always watching little eyes could stay in the game long, every security protocol fell short by some reason or another… There was a good reason indeed why this smaller inner-district was famously known as a region ridden with crime, homelessness, and prostitution.

Yet he knew one of these days, sooner than later, one of them was going to come. He might be slow on understanding the happenings, but a fool he was not, so he knew what was happening, felt it in his bones, and as a dead-man-walking wished for the merciful end to come, he looked forward to it.

Bubble Yum had been always paranoid, as he had gathered long ago that that personality trait would serve him well. Paranoia might be considered a bad thing for the majority of people, and most of the times it proved itself just to be a product of hyper-imagination, but when it happened to be true and sound, it also saved lives, among other things.

So when he sensed a ghost of presence behind his back, somewhere above him, he wasn't shocked at all, instead he was relieved, because it was him, Bubble Yum, not Bastard, that would cause problems, and that was why Bastard had had to always stay at home, waiting for word, while he was doing the legwork. Boy was a clever man, cleverest of all of them, and he wasn't taking any chances.

He made a circle around the Slums then exited into the Narrows on the left, and made another circle around the Cauldron. The hair on the back of his neck never fell down, the presence never left him alone. Yes, he wasn't exaggerating at all. Getting bored, he walked into an alley, occupied by a couple of homeless sitting around a fire that they had built in a tin can, and turned around.

"I'm bored," he said, "show yourself."

When Batman walked out of the shadows, Bubble Yum was a little bit shocked, he had to admit. He hadn't expected to sense his presence beforehand, him being Batman and all, and truthfully the dark armored vigilante hadn't been on his top-three list either. "So it was you."

Within millisecond, a massive gauntleted hand wrapped around his neck, and his back crashed on the wall. "Who is the third victim?"

Too easy, too fucking easy… "You motherfucker…fuck off…"

"Who is it?"

He raised his hand, pointed one finger at one of the homeless behind him. "You see him, motherfucker." His fingers gestured a pistol, and he shot. "Boom, dead, couldn't save him." Batman dropped him on the pavement, pressed his heavy boot on his head, and filth and old vomit came into his mouth and nose. "See her, you motherfucker." He raised again his imaginative pistol to a woman, and shot. "BOOM, dead, couldn't save her either."

A kick hit his side, hard, and pain erupted as Batman bellowed again. "WHO IS HE?"

"Fuck you up your ass, you little pig," Bubble Yum went on angrily as kicks rained down on his body, "I bet you give Joker your ass… you son of a bitch… tis' why you left him alive, wasn't it, you couldn't kill your little ass-loving fucker…"

Pain erupted again, and he raised his leg, kicked back because Bubble Yum had never backed down from a fight; when someone hit him he hit back, when someone cursed him he cursed back; that was the only, only accomplishment he had ever managed in his life, and Bubble Yum was more than determined to prolong it as long as he was alive.

So he fought back, let out another set of colorful abusive language with another kick, before Batman knocked him out.

* * *

Standing up in a clearing of Wayne Grove on the grounds, Valerie looked at the man's unconscious form, and gazed down at shovels next to him, and the crude coffin next to it. She shivered, wrapping her arms around herself. That wasn't exactly plan A, and she wished they had moved on to Plan C, skipping B altogether.

"Bruce—"

"Go back to the manor," he ordered, picking up the shovel, his eyes not diverting. "And wait for me in the study."

"No."

He lifted his head up, and fixed her with a stare. "You're going to the study, _now_," he said, emphasizing the last word strongly, "and I won't say it again."

Valerie flicked her eyes towards Alfred, who stood just behind Bruce, and they stared at each other for a second before huffing out, she turned back and strode off back to the manor.

"Master Wayne—"

Bruce slanted a look towards Alfred. "She's having nightmares, Alfred, seeing herself getting buried alive by her twin with her old face. She won't see this."

"Master Bruce," he started again, and was cut off by Bruce again.

"Alfred," he shoveled the earth, "I need him to talk. And I saw him. He won't… with the usual techniques."

"So we bury him?"

"Well, it was their idea," Bruce snapped back.

When he calculated he was six feet deep, they dropped the man inside the coffin. He nailed down the lid, and lowered it down. Alfred looked skeptical, and worried as he filled the hole with earth.

Then just when the grave was about finished, he saw Valerie approaching out of the corner of his eye. "Damn it, what did I tell you?"

"Fuck off, Bruce Wayne. You're not the boss of me, you can't tell me what to do!" She exclaimed, closing in, and shoved him at the chest, "especially when you bury someone alive."

"For god's sake, Valerie, I'm not burying him alive, permanently," he yelled, grasping her shoulder. "I need those answers, and I'll have them. I don't want you see this because I know you'll start having nightmares again because of it."

She flinched back, and hissed, "I'm not that fragile, I don't need your protection."

"Valerie, only a fool with half a brain would think of you as fragile," he said, voice soft yet stern, "and I know you can take care of yourself, but it doesn't mean you can't appreciate the help when it's offered freely, without any expectation, because that's what friends do, they look out for each other! They care for each other!"

Her limbs trembled and Bruce gathered how tightly he'd grabbed her, how close he'd pulled her to himself, trying to imprint that on her. She nodded slowly, "Okay," and whispered, "Okay, thanks, thanks for—the thought."

He smiled at her and watched as a hesitant smile appeared on her lips. So beautiful, he was stuck yet again, wanting to cradle her against his chest, and protect her from the monsters prowling outside… monsters that wanted to hurt her, had hurt her so profoundly… then he stopped. Minutes ago, he'd buried someone alive six feet under. He was the last person on the earth that could talk about monsters. His hands dropped off her body.

"Do you want to stay?"

She remained silent for a second then said, "Yes, I'll stay."

He nodded then turned to Alfred, "Phone, please."

Valerie looked at the phone at his hand. "Do you think it'll go through down there?"

"Well, the cell operator companies always claim that they get reception anywhere, now we'll see about those claims. No talking except me," he warned, dialing the telephone he had buried with the man. It was answered at the first ring. He put it on speaker. "You fucking piece of shit…"

Bruce closed the phone, Valerie rolled her eyes.

Five minutes later, he tried again. "I want a name," he growled out before the man could say a word.

"Fuck off, do you think this will daunt me, break me?" He yelled. "What tombs, what darkness I saw. What beatings I suffered. You want me to talk? I'll talk, you motherfucker," he laughed out maniacally. "You want to know who the third victim is? Well, I say it; _she_ is a dead one already."

x

When Bruce got him out of the grave, the maniac had already lost consciousness once again. Valerie emerged out from an old, giant tree trunk, and walked over them, to lean back against another one.

"What are you going to do with him?"

Bruce lifted his head. "No point in keeping him here now. We've learned everything that can be learnt from him. I'll drop him at a police station."

She scowled. "They're trying to cover their tracks," she said. "Do you think it's wise?"

"What should I do, Valerie," he snapped back, "Keep him here?"

Her gaze momentarily lightened up before the flare quenched. She shrugged then.

One hour later, Bruce returned, after leaving the man on the doorsteps of the Larkin police station nearby, and crashed onto the chair in the cave. Alfred looked at him warily, Valerie inspected her nails seriously.

"A dissocial subculture sociopath," she said then abruptly, lifting her head up.

"What?"

"The gum man," she clarified. "He's a dissocial subculture sociopath." She sighed, darting her gaze to him. "I recognized the symptoms in the first minute." She hesitated. "They can be, um fiercely loyal when they feel like it."

* * *

_A/N: Needlessly to say, I was preparing Bubble Gum for this exchange from the very beginning. Story-wise Bubble Gum is Valerie's counterpart, for Boy, the other side of the coin, as Boy's himself also the other side of the coin for Bruce. Two orphans, one with a family of mobsters and the other philanthropic people like Waynes. The structure here is actually a triangle, between Bruce, Boy, and Bullock, as Bullock forms the tip of the triangle as a father who lost his own child(also a police officer.)_

_This chapter was a joy for to write, for a couple of reason, first because of the Harleen and Burke scene in the beginning, that talk was one of the reasons why I actually wrote this whole story, and it was directly inspired by the original work I've kind of ripped off. (This was also the reason for my ripping off, because it's about Bruce, it's about Valerie, Bullock, Boy, me, and you, dear reader, it's about us.) Second, it was really nice to make Bruce and Valerie starting 'flirting', and well, I wanted to make Bruce going extremes like burying people alive to get what he wants. Answers!_

_The killer at the Pamela's scene was the one from the beginning chapters, who killed the mobster's advocate's daughter in her sixteen birthday, and of course, he was Pamela's first 'victim.', the one she planted an ivy seed._

_As I said, this chapter was a joy for me to write, I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I liked writing it._

_See ya at the next time._


	26. Chapter 23

_A/N: In this chapter, you *won't* see the best action scene ever, and well, I'd come up with some pretty justifications here to explain why I couldn't/wouldn't/didn't do it any way better, but in the end those all would be just excuses, and would paint me as a whiner, so let's not. I don't like whinny people._

_Scenes continue to shift rapidly, because, I'm a cheater :)_

**Chapter Twenty-Three:**

* * *

Burke closed the phone with a scowl, and looked at his other co-workers. "Find chief," he said to Pam, fisting his hand. "Batman dropped that gum guy in a police station next to the Narrows."

Charlie stood up. "Where are you going?"

"To take him before MCU gets in the way," Fields shot back over his shoulder. "We need him talking."

* * *

"Well, at least we know now it's a _she_," Valerie said, standing in front of the wall on which Bruce had pinned down every little detail they had gathered. "I made a folder on female relatives of retired police officers." She sighed. "We have about one hundred and two females on our hands. It will take a while."

"Search every one of them." He turned to Alfred. "Alfred will help you."

She nodded. "What are you going to do about that shipment?"

Bruce scowled even further. "It might be true, it might be a bogie to test the waters, it might even be a trap," he answered. "I questioned some people. They all seem to think that the Irish are preparing for something. The bank account we found in Bahamas started transacting again last night. I'll need to check it. The merchandise is probably on the way to the port, and that was the last payment."

"If new weapons scattered around the streets…" Valerie looked at him. "Bruce, that'd be very—"

"—bad," Bruce cut her off. "I won't let Gotham drift into another mob war."

* * *

Dan stood up when he sensed the intruder in his filthy studio apartment, one bed was now empty, and in reflex he reached for the gun under his pillow, pulled it out and aimed. When he saw that it was Boy silently standing in front of the door his hands shoved into his leather jacket, he dropped his gun, and relaxed a little bit. "Fuck you, man, you gave me a heart attack," he rambled angrily, as Boy simply arched an eyebrow, and took the unlit Luckies from the corner of his lips. "_Batman_ dropped Bubble on the police."

Throwing the cigarette away, Boy nodded serenely, and Bastard wondered how he could remain this cool in this fucking business. He knew he should have never said yes to him, no matter how much money he was offering, no matter _what_ he was offering, but they had been… friends… back in the day, as close as people could be in those places, and Bubble would get very much involved with this kind of shit, loyal dumb piece of shit. Bastard didn't care about revenge nor did he particularly care for Boy, but he cared for Bubble, _a lot. _

Though, times like this, he wished he hadn't.

"So he finally decided to come to play," Boy said slowly, "I've been waiting."

"The police got Bubble, Batman must have questioned him too," he said, filling with ire at his calmness. Yet he knew even this calmness culminated with delicacy was a play, and underneath there was a dreadful wrath, carefully hidden under small gentle gestures and with a witty mirth, a horrendous wrath enough to put people in coffins and bury them alive. He might be look like a person from outside but inside his _friend_ was just as hollow as old dead trees.

He knew he should have raised an objection, went to the police, told them everything, and everything, but there was more than one reason why Dan, born into foster homes, a child of a prostitute was called _Bastard_. He lifted his eyes to Boy. "If something happens to him, happens to me, you little pig, I'll kill you with my own hands."

He smiled a little smile and momentarily Bastard thought of killing him right then and be done with it. "I know." They looked at each other for a while, him with a seething fury, and Boy with a serene coolness, then the fucking psychopath finally said, "I like very much when people act accordingly to their natures." He paused a little. "There is something fundamentally disturbing with people who don't."

Bastard sent him another glower. "What the fuck does that mean?"

"It means you're worrying for naught."

"I'm not," he snapped back.

"It's okay, Dan," Boy replied, "All warriors wish to drop their guards in front of someone."

"Oh, man, stop philosophizing on me," he warned, taking a few steps forward, "What's going on?"

"They're acting, my friend, exactly how I've expected them to," Boy responded. "I was wondering… you know… really wondering, perhaps I was even hoping…," he paused. "If they confessed, perhaps, I might have been _even_ willing to reconsider my last act. I wasn't expecting it but I was wondering."

"And—?"

He shrugged. "That's the problem with people, Dan. Look at the city, look at beautiful Gotham. They want to erase the ghosts of the past. They make new monuments, build new things, start charities, but no one really wants to wash their hands clean."

"Man," Bastard drawled, getting more frustrated, "What the fuck are you talking about? I'm talking about Bubble Gum, our Bubble, the slow dumb shit."

Boy smiled again, a little, gentle, suave. "I'm talking about our friend, Dan." He settled himself down on the battered couch. "History repeats itself. They're covering their tracks, again. They don't even care about the life of that poor girl, thinking a few security measures will be enough to protect her against me." He paused to give him a look. "Do you believe they would _want_ Bubble to start talking now, spilling the beans?"

Then it finally dawned on Bastard. "You fucking, clever motherfucker… You knew this, didn't you?"

Boy smiled gently again. "I was… _expecting_ it." He put his hands over his knees. "And so was Bubble. We've talked about this—possibility."

He frowned, "Why him, not me?"

"Bastard, we're good friends. We don't need to lie to each other." His unflinching gaze bore through his. "I know the first second you get caught, you're selling me out."

Bastard shook his head. "You're a strange man, bro, a very strange man." Boy didn't answer back, his eyes still stuck on him. "Then what are we doing now?"

"Now?" Boy arched one eyebrow. "Now, we do what've been doing. We wait. Bubble should be out in a few days." He paused, and finally moved his gaze away, and he looked outside; night growing, darkness falling in. "And my birthday is coming."

* * *

A thick folder lay over her chest as she sprawled over the couch on her side, her arm draping over her body, but fingers still clutching loosely the folder between. Bruce pried the manila folder out of her hands, put the scattered photos inside, and signaled Alfred to bring him the thin blanket that he'd had stored for her. He covered her then watched her sleeping state. She wasn't moaning, nor whimpering, her face was relaxed, her chest moving up and down with rhythmic breathing, sleeping soundly. No nightmares.

Good.

He turned to Alfred. "Alfred, make her stay in house," he instructed. "I'll just make an appearance then return."

"Master Wayne, why don't you stay in too?" Alfred asked, walking toward the door with him. "You need to rest as well."

He shook his head. "I need to make a run around." He heaved a sigh. "I was… absent for days… need to show up now."

"You'll be needing a date then, or several?"

Bruce gave the older man a disapproving look before looking back over his shoulder to Valerie. "Best not to provoke her."

"Thought so."

x

A few hours (dreadfully boring), a couple of mild flirtation (nothing like Valeries'), and a handful of drinks (ditched successfully) later, his phone chirped as he was on his way back to the manor.

"You're a jerk, Bruce Wayne."

"You were sleeping."

"I wouldn't have if you'd told me about it before."

"You need rest, not hopping around with me in the company of dreadfully dull people," he paused, "your words."

She made a noise deep in her throat. "Don't worry, I'm quite sure I could have found something… interesting_._"

He didn't answer, barely surpassing the urge to bare his teeth in anger. "I'll charge you twice for tonight," she said then.

Bruce passed the phone to other ear, clutching the wheel with his free hand as he made a left turn. "You weren't _even_ there tonight."

"Still charging you twice."

"Because—?"

"Because I want it to happen this way."

"You can't always get everything you want."

Her voice dropped a tone down as she answered before hanging up, "But I can get quite a _lot_."

* * *

From his posture, it was clear that he had been to this barbecue party before. The slightly slumped shoulders, feet stretched out, one hand carelessly propped on the arm of the chair, while the other one rested on the table. It was the stance that Charlie had seen on hundreds of punks during the long years he'd spent on the job, and he could have easily passed as just another street punk, if there hadn't been that little curious yellow dossier lying between them on the table.

Burke paced around the room like a caged lion, tense and ready to blow. The man had been silent since they had gathered him from the police station, simply waiting. Burke suddenly stopped and looked at him. "Why did Batman drop you in Larkin Station?"

The young man straightened his cocked head, and looked back at him. "I don't know. I was going home. You'll have to ask to him."

There was no trace of irony in his voice, no trace of dryness; it was offered just like a simple suggestion, with a subtle gentleness, as if he was directing an address to a tourist. He glanced at the dossier, frowning as Burke bellowed, "Are you fucking with me, punk?"

The man tensed, Charlie noticed. The dull eyes flared up as his hand clutched the chair's arm. "No, cop," he hissed out.

Charlie interrupted before things got out the control. He sent a look to Burke. They'd almost kidnapped the man, and they had to play along now. For a second Burke glared back at him, then dropped his head, his temper waning.

And the young punk was staring at them uncaringly, "What were you doing _before_ you were going home?" He tried again.

He shrugged, "Drinking in Wilken's."

"We looked for you, at home, you weren't there."

He lifted a shoulder again, "Can't stay in one place long, have to move around." His hand waved towards the dossier in front of him. "Surely it's written somewhere down there, _settlement issues—_"He let the rest of words hang with a mocking smile.

Both Fields and Burke grimaced.

Bubble Gum looked smug as he leaned backward, his hand that was propped on the chair's arm lifted on its back, and Charlie pictured him chewing a gum. "Detectives, may I learn why you were looking for me?"

Fuming with anger, Bruce braced his hands on the table and leaned forward. "You think you're smart, punk, don't you?"

"No, I'm not smart, _cop_," he answered evenly, "I am not."

"They saw your van—white pickup—at the first victim's house." He paused to grimace. "Do you change the vehicles now?"

"Which victim, which pick-up?"

"Take Away Removal Company."

"Ah," he sighed, then a smile followed, "That was long ago, I closed that book."

"Sure you did," Burke shot back. "What is it he's after?"

"Who?"

"You know who."

His hand lifted toward his hair and he scratched his head. "Detective, I can't follow you, I'm not really very smart," again a smile, and an airy flick of his hand, "Check it out."

Burke's face reddened, and at last he snapped, "Listen to me you motherfucker—"

Charlie closed his eyes as the Bubble Gum jolted to his feet. "You are a motherfucker."

"Who do you call motherfucker, you son of a bitch?"

Then it got out of control. "Of course, you, little ass, is there any motherfucker else here?" the maniac shot back as Burke grabbed him by his collar, and pulled him from the other side of the table. He threw him down on the table, the yellow dossier went flying, scattering around.

"You little pig, listen." He tightened his grip, and leaned down toward his face. "You've done this dance before. Think. We signed you papers? We took your written testimonial? You're slow, eh? Think slowly then. Let's say if we take you out now, who would know?"

Bubble Gum spit in his face. Burke, bellowing, threw him at the other side of the room before Charlie interfered. He caught the younger detective at the arm. "Trust me, motherfucker, you want to talk," Burke hissed out, while pulling his arm free.

The maniac barked out a laugh. "No, the real question is, motherfucker, do your people want _me_ to talk?"

* * *

Bruce ducked from the shrunken coming directly at him, while yelling, "Watch out!" He pointed at the marked board twenty meters away from him. "Your target is over there, not me."

Valerie, pouting, sent him a glower. "It's stupid."

"I _told_ you," Bruce shot back, walking toward her. "I'll teach you Jujutsu grappling techniques if you give this up." He reached to take the other carved blade out of her fingers. "Deal?"

"Hmpf," she let him taking the blade, "you just want to throw me all around the place." He smiled faintly at her, she looked up at him. "Buy me a spa, will you?"

He shook his head. "You're redefining the meaning of high-maintenance from the start."

She flashed a saucy smile. "Still flattering me, are you?" She leaned on him, one hand reaching behind, and then slapped his ass. "So… was that a yes?"

His eyes widened as he caught her arm at the elbow, and steered her out of the gym. "We'll see." He dropped her elbow. "How's it going with research? Found anything?"

"Other than that Detective Sanchez and Liner seem to have an illegitimate daughter? Nope." She shook her head, grimacing, "Nothing." She turned her neck to flick him a look. "But the good news is that Fox seems to be finishing up your radar thingie."

Bruce nodded. "Yes, I talked with him this morning. He says it'll be ready next week."

"Excellent. How's it going with the Irish?"

"He's playing at something," Bruce replied flatly. "Tomorrow night we'll learn of it."

She huffed, "It's about time."

* * *

Alfred was going through the list as Valerie sat in front of screens monitoring Bruce, fighting with yet another urge to yawn. Finally giving in, she stifled the yawn with the back of her hand, and asked through the wireless. "Any luck?"

"Nothing," his distinctive growl came in loud and clear. There was a pause then he asked a little bit gentler. "How are you holding up?"

She knew sooner or later she would have to draw the line with his…motherhening. Truthfully she should have already done so but she'd discovered she didn't mind it all that much, in fact she found it quite… nice. "I'm, uh, holding up," she responded, rolling her shoulders. "But we should really take a couple of days off when these things… end. Perhaps at a spa?"

"Nice try," he rasped out then softening his voice asked, "Alfred gave you your pill?"

She sighed, massaging her shoulder. "Yes," she paused then went on absently, "You know what we really have to do, Bruce? Once we got the Irish, we need to go out to celebrate it in—an Irish pub."

He chuckled faintly, voice now closer to his normal tone than the raspy whisper, "Okay."

"Okay?" she asked back, suspicious, "Really?"

"Yeah, really."

She felt Alfred's gaze on her, watching carefully as she laughed softly. "You realize _Batman_ is making small talk with me, right?" He grunted, she laughed wearily. "I know, hard to believe…" She laughed again. "Collins… How does it sound?"

"Huh?"

"Valerie Collins. How does it sound?"

There was a pause over the line then he slowly commented, "Good."

"Really?" She curled her lips down. "I don't think so. Something a little more enticing perhaps, maybe I should go with Sinclair—"

"No," Bruce replied quickly, terse.

"Dangerous?" She nodded. "Yes, you're right. How about West then? Valerie West, it has a ring in it, doesn't it? And I'll _totally_ be the newest version of Mae—"

"Silence," _Batman _growled out.

And she did without a second thought. She pulled up the security cameras of the port, looking at the alley below the roof of the warehouse he was waiting on and saw the Irish's thugs coming into the game. So the tip was actually genuine.

She drew in a sharp breath as the frequency scanner burst into static, and a voice that had grown familiar called for attention. "All available units please report to the West Bank."

She cursed loudly, Alfred's attention completely averted from the print outs in front of him to her. "Bruce, someone must have tipped off the police too. They are coming."

He growled in anger, and there was a loud wuthering then he rasped out, "Dots. Positions. Monitor all the cameras."

Yes, this time, at least, she had _eyes_. She divided her screen in half, pulling the dots online, while the other half monitored all the different angles of the streets, checking every exit and entrance as Bruce started his assault earlier than he had prepared.

"The police are closing, be quick," she warned as he engaged six men unloading the wooden cases at once, and screams, groans, and sounds of breaking bones reached her ear. She squinted at the screen to sort the fighting men then four bangs of gunshot muffled everything else out.

There was chaotic screaming once again, thuds of falling, and lots of metal scratching and one long groan, full with pain. "Bruce, talk to me," she ordered, her hands clutching at the table's side, as she squinted further, bending down. So much chaos, it was impossible to garner what happened from the screens, but the red dot had moved slightly north on the map.

Alfred approached her. "Bruce—"She tried again. Silence…"Bruce—!" she exclaimed as Alfred put an earpiece into his ear. "Master Wayne, do you read?"

They heard a heavy breathing after a second then another hoarse groan. "I—am shot," he rasped out, "close to my spleen between the plates. The plates got the worst—"

"You need to get out of there," she interrupted heatedly. "ETA for Gotham PD—three minutes. You need to get out of there, now."

"No—"He answered flatly. "I need to—"

"No. Turn back right now. We'll—" The red dot started to move again, south. "Bruce, dammit, turn back!"

"No."

"You're being ridiculous."

"Call Gordon."

"He can't help now. He can't back them off under the all of the eyes of PD."

There was silence in her ear as the red dot moved on the map. She yanked the wireless out of her ear, and turned to Alfred. "Talk to him. He'll listen to you."

"Listen to me?" Alfred asked, shutting off his own radio too. "In whose company have you been all this time, miss?" He paused. "Besides, he needs to do it."

"He's shot, surrounded by the entire Irish mob and Gotham PD is approaching. Why am I the only one who sees it as such a terrible idea?"

"I've seen him manage against worse odds, Ms. Valerie."

"So we do what?" she shot back, raising her voice as she hopped down. "Wait until he bleeds to death?"

Alfred gave her a curious look. "You're worried."

She gave him a look back and said again, "Talk to him."

"Master Wayne let you go with your reckless plan for Ivanokovic even if he wasn't content with it."

"That was different," she exclaimed. "I wasn't bleeding to death there."

"You were taking your chances, same as him now," Alfred said impassively. "And it was different because you were the one who was making the decision to risk your own life." He stood up too.

It was high time that Alfred interfered to give one of those lessons his charge was trying to impart on her. He had been watching them more closely after his charge had confessed, and Alfred knew the young man was lost beyond hope for her now, and he knew that he was still keeping her at his arm's reach but sooner or later, no, _sooner_ than later, he was going to drop his arms and pull her closer. He was getting tired, tired of fighting _that battle_. Alfred could see that she was…dropping too, but she still had better defenses.

She needed to understand the thing he had understood at the first time the child he loved as his own son had set a foot outside in the night, she needed to understand what truly meant _knowing_ Bruce Wayne.

He walked closer to her and stopped only when he was just in her personal space. "But it's the thing you want to be part of, Ms. Valerie, that's what _he_ asks you to be a part of; and that's what means being part of anything, not only about risking your own life but watching people you care about taking chances with theirs. It hurts, doesn't it?"

Her lips trembled, and the world misted...looking at Alfred, her mind trying to decipher what he'd said then something broke inside. She couldn't lose him, no… no… She didn't want to experience that. This… whatever it was she couldn't break it, she'd tried. God knew she had, how many times, and they all saw how it had ended. Her voice was broken, barely whisper, when she said,"He's my friend."

"Yes," Alfred agreed.

"And friends look out for each other," she muttered. She took a deep breath, let it out, then said with a clear voice, "Take the stations, Alfred."

"Miss Valerie?" Alfred questioned.

"Ducati," she answered him. "I'll need Ducati."

"Miss Valerie?" Alfred asked again as she jogged toward the lift. He turned on the wireless. His charge's voice, breathing heavily with difficulty, heard instantly. "Alfred, what's happening? Why did you turn off the wireless?"

Alfred watched her as she got lost behind the lift. "Sir, remember how do always keep telling on Ms. Valerie about friendships and such? Well, I believe you've finally accomplished establishing that point on her, and a little bit too literally."

"_What?_"

"She's going out to help _you_."

"Valerie—"Bruce bellowed. "Turn back right now."

"She took her earpiece out," Alfred informed him evenly.

"Alfred, keep her in," he barked out.

"She's already left the cave for, I presume, the garage. She mentioned the Ducati."

"Alfred—"Bruce growled. "Bring her in. I just can't deal with her now."

* * *

Jeans, a simple black top, and sneakers…not the best attire to play the hero but for the moment it had to do. The helmet should hide her face from any unwanted attention and if she had to take it out, the snow mask inside her little backpack would do the rest. She took the Glock out of her backpack, and slid it back through her t-shirt. She stuffed the other items that she'd snatched from the cave for emergencies into her bag, pushed her arms through the handles, and ran to the garage.

She needed to lure Gotham PD out of the port, away from Bruce, and for that she needed distractions and for _that_ she needed help. Shutting all the warning bells in her head, she fished out her phone and made the call.

Selina Kyle answered it with a languorous 'hello.' She didn't beat around the bush. "I need your help."

"I'm listening."

"On Tenth Avenue, there is a newly opened Cartier."

Selina laughed. "Valerie, dearie, your trust in my abilities is flattering but I can't—_liberate_ a Cartier shop."

"I don't need you to. _We_ don't need to. Just a scene. To distract the guards."

"May I ask the purpose of this—distraction?"

"You _may_," Valerie answered back.

"Hmm… Will you _answer_?"

"No."

Selina was silent at other side then she asked again, "If I accept, all debts will be settled?"

"Yes."

"How big this scene will be?"

Valerie thought the flash bombs, sounds bombs and little gunpowder in her backpack. "_Very_ big."

"Find me on East 9th." Laughing, Selina closed the phone.

She pushed the wireless earpiece into her ear, and bracing herself for the incoming thunder, she called in. "Bruce?"

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Saving your ass," she hopped onto bike.

"Turn back to the cave right now," he barked out, each breath coming with difficulty.

"No."

"Valerie—"

"I won't sit on my ass, playing with your dots, while you bleed to death over there, surrounded by the entire city's cops and the damn mob!" She said angrily. "You're my friend, and friends look out for each other. _You_ told me that."

"I didn't mean it like this!"

"Well, I'm taking it in this particular way." She paused before starting the bike. "I'll keep the police away from you, and you'll deal with the Irish. Perfect division of labor in every sense."

His tone got softer, "Valerie—"

The bike came alive with a deafening roar. "Don't worry, Bruce, I'll let you thank me later. I've started to make a 'thank-you-gifts' list already."

* * *

_A/N: All right, as I say, not the brightest action scene ever, but as you already got it, it was needed to get Valerie understand things a bit better. Understanding something's worth only when you come close to lose it, or after you have lost it is cliché, yes, but the clichés actually are clichés for a reason, 'cause they are real. I wanted Valerie to see it, taste it, to finally grasp what means being 'inside', so to speak, and what means having people you care about other than your own self(hide.) Alfred's talk about being a part of something comes from SG-1, the best team show ever created :) And it's of course no wonder that I did after she started to talk about having finally her surname, her ID, _settlement issues_, hah, Bubble isn't the only one who suffers through them._

_The next time, the first appearance of Catwoman, sort of. Till then, be well. (LOL, possibly it's tomorrow night :))_


	27. Chapter 24

_A/N: __Gotham here is located in a 'oh-la-la' fairy land, because I don't like studying maps and geography. With this story, along with many other things, I also learned this: Unlike the most of ffnet, I'd never, ever, be a perfectionist. It's just not in my blood._

**Chapter Twenty-Four:**

* * *

To tell the truth, her story wasn't an example of 'a-good-girl-gone-bad', it was more like a 'not-a-particularly-good-girl understood how much of a fool she had been', and what was the phrase; a girl, reputation and never missing it? Oh, yes, she certainly never missed it.

Melina was smarter than her, that much she knew for sure, but Selina was a quick study too. Until fourteen, until that day, she had fought the words of her wisdom, then _he_ had come, with laughs, smiles, and hopes, and in a matter of days undid everything.

Selina had been brought to life for only one purpose; even her name was an extension of Melina, her challenge for single motherhood because everyone else thought she shouldn't; her vessel, her puppet to achieve the things she couldn't, not anymore, and if nothing else for that she still loved the guy, for causing her to severe the not-so-invisible ropes, she really loved him even after all these years, even after all those things had happened. It was just she hated him for that too, just a little bit _more_.

Fourteen years, fourteen years, and all your struggles, all your decisiveness and one day, in a minute, you lost them, and then you turned back and looked, and saw that all the things you lost didn't mean anything, anything _at all_. That would make anyone a little mad but her…well, it meant basically _run for the hills._

She took the lustrous leather cat suit out of the underside of her wardrobe, and looked at it. The voluptuous costume had served its purpose, she thought remembering the masked ball Thomas had thrown back in London. Thomas had surely been more open-minded about her suggestions regarding certain family heirlooms with her in this suit, a cat burglar costume from his favorite anime from childhood, his first—_girlfriend_. Really, he'd never stopped being a small boy; too easy.

The latest stunt had been an achievement she was particularly proud of, not only had she put some spokes in his wheel, and tear daddy dearest and him further apart but she had also proved one of her theories; she had been curious as to how he would have reacted, and he hadn't disappointed her. She gave him an opening, gave him a chance for a life without her, a perfect opportunity to break their circle and what did he do? At the first chance, the chance she had served him on a silver tray by means of his stupid P.I, he pulled her back to Gotham, forced her back into the circle.

Typical, just typical.

And _economy_ evidently was her watchword this season. The costume really served its purpose and still continued to do so because Selina knew for good distractions it was always needed good deceits.

At fourteen, after she had learned about the deal, after Thomas tried to make another round of his stupid explanations, sitting on the deck at the port, watching her own reflection in the lake, moonshine glinting over the fractured surface, she had understood a few things about life and men, and Melina's wise words; _never let a man feel he owns you completely, always keep them at bay, just give a taste of what you're offering and let them crawl back, begging for more._ It saved Scheherazade's life for one thousand and one nights, and allowed Cleopatra prevent the inevitable for years, and Selina sometimes thought she had been born in the wrong age. She would have made a terrific queen-goddess.

Some people, of course, would describe her as a manipulative heartless bitch, well, come to think of it, _most_ people would describe her as manipulative heartless bitch but she knew it was just nonsense. Humanity was manipulative, even little children. A child threw you a big smile, complete with an innocent look then asked for a sweet; a husband looked for absolution and a wife got a diamond necklace; a pretty girl wanted a boy for some mundane thing, she played nice, smiled coyly, blushing. People were generally manipulative, she was just so much better at it. She had that uncanny ability, (perhaps genetic ability, she was her mother's daughter after all) just one look and she saw all their vulnerabilities, their insecurities, their despairs, and their hopes open on their face, like a story—their life story written out in flesh and bone—scattered foreign letters in an unknown language, wishing to have someone read it.

But people were generally wool headed fools too, and much too lazy to decipher it, and appearances could be very deceiving for they only saw what they _wanted_ to see, because no one really bothered to give a glance to what lays beneath, because no one really ever wanted to wash their hands clean, because it was easier this way, believing in their own lies.

And they all said all they wanted to know was the truth but when they heard it, they didn't like it, they couldn't even say it, it was always 'it's not about you, it's about me…' and vaudeville continued… and everyone happy.

The bitter taste in her mouth, like greasy ash on the tongue, the hypocrisy was enough to make her teeth grit in familiar anger, even after all these years, even after all those things had happened but she was all above about that now, all over it, and fourteen years, fourteen years… meant nothing in a vain hope that it could mean _something_.

Nothing meant anything; that was why diamonds made such wonderful gifts, if nothing meant anything, they had to be at least _worth_ something. She threw the costume on her bed, in her small two bedroom flat, average and not belonging to her, oh so not belonging to her, and she would turn back, she was going to return to the _family_ again, he would see. This had become about more than not having money, no…no… She had to turn back, and she was going to turn back because this was a _war_ that she could never ever let him win.

She put on the suit and looked at her reflection. She was glorious inside the skin tight suit the same as she had been on the deck that night, her reflection on the dark surface fracturing with gentle waves, moonlight glinting over it, blood dripping through her fingers as she held the curt stone that had taken her virginity tightly between them. And leather, glowing, lustrous leather over her skin felt as good as how blood had felt over her skin, running down through her inner thighs, like a flood, slick and silky. She'd rubbed it over her lips, crimson and copper on her tongue, and sour, and the young fractured woman on the dark surface of the glinting lake was so beautiful… At that moment she had understood Narcissus better, she would never have been that _perfect_ again.

She closed her eyes, breathed in silently, feeling her pulse accelerating, the familiar rush seeping into her veins…her lips tilted up with a smile. Being a thief, the very idea, gave her a relish, a strong zest, something incredibly close to that night on the deck when her life had changed…no…no... when it'd evolved into something better…something more _real_. She wasn't a pro yet, no, not yet but Selina was always a quick study.

She had already made the twin cats to Hollis. She'd given it a lot of thought, even before she had cracked the idea to Thomas first, she'd pondered about it, weighted on it, and it seemed perfect, she was Selina Kyle after all, who would _expect _this? After Thomas had had her thrown out of the family, cast out, the interesting possibility had turned to a _necessity_, and a part of her, that nihilistic destructive part whispering hushed oh-so-sweet vicious things, the part made the blood in her veins boil while her fingertips ran over the leather was glad of it more than anything in her life.

She had no idea what this night all was about, not yet, oh, _certainly_ not yet but in all brutal honesty it didn't matter. Those two had seemed to have something going on; she hadn't believed even for a minute that Bruce Wayne could be in an open relationship.

She knew him, she had known Bruce Wayne really well that night when she had taken his virginity, just on the floor, barely out of their clothes, his eyes glinting even when there was no light to reflect on them in his darkened room, his face twisting with pleasure and with something… something primal and as destructive as that part of her.

All things considered, Selina had never, not even for a second, been surprised when she had heard Bruce Wayne had disappeared at the face of the world without a notice. No, whatever kind of fool the tabloids claimed him to be, that man she saw that night couldn't simply share anything that was _his_. People changed, they changed all the time, Selina knew that better than anyone; people changed but not all that much.

But again it hardly mattered. Valerie had literally caught her red handed, that meant she had the gambling chips. She liked the girl, really did, and not just because she had left the car to her, or because the sex had been good, but she looked like a smart girl, someone who had realized a few things about life and people too, and with one look she had gathered that Selina Kyle wasn't simply a kind of woman you would want yourself to be sided against.

She clipped a leather tool belt around her waist, it stood out a bit, but as far as deceptions go she was pragmatic too, she needed to have some tools and there was no need to be a fashion victim. She stuffed a taser gun inside her over knee length boots, and put the costume's delicate lacework mask on, the crimson lipstick on her lips; it tasted copper and sour on her tongue as the tips of her fingers rubbed against the leather, silky and slick.

She looked at the mirror, and smiled. _Perfect_, she was perfect once again.

* * *

She had a very particular sense of fashion, Valerie had to admit. She glanced at Selina, looking like a wet dream of some teenage geek, and nodded approvingly. Her own simple attire seemed more pathetic compared to hers but she wrote it off. That was the plan after all; let her distract while she did the real thing.

Selina was making some observations of her own, it seemed, as she tilted her head to side, the eyes behind the delicate mask gleaming. Suddenly Valerie had that nagging feeling that she was making a grave, a very grave mistake. Selina's gaze lowered, and stilled on the bulkiness under her t-shirt. "I don't like guns," the masked woman said, her demeanor was indifferent but her voice was like steel.

Well, she didn't really like them herself to be honest. "Neither do I." She opened her palm to reveal two matte little round balls, with metallic spokes poking out on all surfaces, and asked, "How do you feel about _explosives_?"

"You always say the sweetest things," Selina cooed, taking one of the flash bombs between two gloved fingers, her eyes searching, a frown settled between her brows as she noticed the Wayne Tech logo on the bottom of it. Then, the next second, she smiled; wolfish, teeth flashing, eyes glinting, and Valerie knew at that moment this was going to be bad, really bad. In her defense though, she had known that it would turn out to be a bad idea, even before she had made the call, but Bruce was there, without help, and she couldn't leave him alone… and if that meant she had to make a deal with the devil itself, she was ready to suffer through consequences. Bruce was going to come back tonight, safely, she would do _anything_ for it.

That was the only logical action left to her now, the only opening from the corner she had pushed herself into. She couldn't leave him behind, so she was going to do the next best thing. She was going to protect him like she protected herself.

* * *

Selina plugged in the decoder Valerie supplied and waited as the devious device did its job, giving the password to let her walk into Cartier shop without raising any alarm. Breaking and entering, she could see now, was easiest part of the job, the real problem was going to be luring the guards out, judging on what seemed to be in Valerie's mind.

She grimaced, annoyed, gazing at the device. Letting a shop like this blow to kingdom come was certainly a crime against humanity. All these beautiful stones, shiny, sparkling, calling her seductively blown to dust, she thought and her scowl grew bigger. When she had decided on her new career, she had expected to liberate these kinds of beauties, not the other way around. But sometimes you just couldn't help it, life carried on… but there would be other opportunities, there was going to be…she was going to make sure of it.

The device clicked, and let her in obediently. She slid through the glass door, ran through the corridor, trying to catch when the guards would spot their guest's presence over their security cameras.

She didn't need to wonder much though as she walked into airy showroom, three guards burst in too, and she halted in her steps, and watched as they halted as well, shocked at the sight of her. How very typical. "Hmm, lovely greeting party," she greeted her company then locked her gaze on their guns fastened on their hips, forgotten. "Now, are we going to play strip search?"

The guards looked at each other then turned their attention back to her then they pulled out their guns at once, aiming them at her. "Stay still," one of the men warned, getting closer. "Don't move."

"Frankly," she made an affronted noise, "Not quite the thing I'd make me do if I had _me_ at gunpoint."

The guards looked at her again in bewilderment, her gaze flicked towards the watch on her waist. Five minutes. She smiled again, wide, teeth flashing, twirled the flash bomb between her gloved fingers and threw it at them, closing her eyes. The bomb went off with a bright light she sensed even beneath her closed eyes, and she turned away running towards the exit. Thirty seconds later she opened her eyes, still running, and heard heavy footsteps following her. She smiled, delighted, the distraction seemed to be working just fine. Valerie must have already planted her bombs, and she kept running, and they kept following, and as soon as she reached the door, and placed a foot out, she heard the explosions. Alarms went off in every direction around her, the guards behind her fell on the ground with the impact, unconscious yet alive.

Under five minutes the place was going to be swarmed with police, which seemed to be the sole reason of this ridiculous façade. She dove for the first alley and threw herself onto the back streets. Valerie had told her to go north then turn back to head home making circles to lose anyone that might be on her tail but as far as she saw there was no one.

She dived deeper into the back streets, then circled around the city center. She turned a left corner and halted in her steps. A man was beating a small girl, barely sixteen, slim, and skinny, and tiny, her face belonged to a doll, big green eyes, blond straight hair, and she was getting beaten prettily badly, while the man drug her away.

She turned to leave, took a step and the girl's whimpering reached her. "Please, please, Alex, don't…" She barely made out the tiny accented whispers as she pleaded with the man. "I swore I won't try again, please, please, don't hurt me… I won't."

"If you don't stop this, your end will be six-oh-six—"

The girl's whimpers turned to terrified whispers, "Please…no six-oh-six! Please no six-oh-six…"

_Run_…she ordered herself as her hands fisted on her hips. _Don't turn back._

She turned on her heels. "Life… Life would be so much easier, if we didn't have this conscience," she commented with a big sigh. The light haired man's motions halted as he turned back to source of the interruption and Selina arched a meaningful eyebrow, sauntering toward them, "Don't you agree?"

The man sneered at her, "Fuck off, bitch." She sensed the same accent of his speech too, somewhere in Eastern Europe, though not heavy as much as girls. "While you still can."

"Okay," she drawled out, sighing out loud, getting closer. "This is how it's gonna be; you leave, the girl goes, and I _fuck off_. And no one gets hurt." She paused for a millisecond, stretching her limbs while she walked, every self-defense lesson of the past twelve years passing through her mind quickly. "And by no one I mean _you_."

The man let the girl go, turning to face her fully, and the next a gun pointed at her. She didn't hesitate. Turning on her axis, she kicked at his hand, planted leg swirled completely around her body as she was instructed so many times before. That familiar rush rose in her veins once again, like the first time she had participated in a kick-boxing class, at fourteen, despite Melina's many tantrums and objections, or perhaps maybe just because of them, feet and fists coming and going with pain, _always_ with pain, and she had welcomed it as eagerly as she had welcomed her own delirium itself.

The ballet had been Melina's dream, her sole purpose in life, even after the crash, perhaps even _more_ after the crash, where she had lost her dreams, and Selina had always been Melina's little ballerina, her little puppet, with strings to make her dance according to her wishes. She remembered Melina's face when she had told her she'd given up on dancing, always remembered the look on her face when she had told her she had started to attend in kickboxing classes, the utter horror over it, the day she had lost her little ballerina, her little doll, she always remembered it. She devoured the joy from it.

This was different though, no rules, no invigilator, no one to break in if things turned out nasty, you only had yourself, your abilities, and your smarts, and in some strange way she liked that too, liked it even _more_.

The enraged man charged forward, and Selina raised her leg once again to push him back but he held on it, twirled her around, and forced her to fall.

Her back hit the pavement with pain. Rage ran through her body, it seemed she wasn't the only one who had some kind of training. Her gaze flicked over to the girl behind them, looking at them, her big eyes widened with fear. She clenched her teeth, rose on her feet, and charged once again. For every assault his defenses rose, blocking her moves. The man's hand trapped her arm at back as the other groped her ass. "You're—feisty, kitten, I'll give you that," he squeezed further as she tsked through her teeth, "but you made a very big mistake."

She braced her heels on his feet with all her strength, took a step forward, breaking his grip and reached for the taser gun stuffed inside her boot. She turned around with the gun, and it touched him on the upper arm as he grabbed her other arm, smirking.

She looked down at the taser gun then up to the man's smirking face, and sighed inwardly. _Her_ life really would have been much, much easier, if she hadn't had this conscience, she thought briefly before pressing down on the charger.

* * *

He felt dizzy, nauseous, the wound at his side throbbed with pain, while blood dripped slowly; but the anger, the hot, liquid fire of fury in his veins didn't let him feel any of it. He stuck another adrenalin needle, pushing on the plates, and tried to sort out the mess. The Irish were still going south, the police had already closed in, he was surrounded, and Valerie… who knew what the hell she was doing. When he saw her next, he was going to kill her. He was going to lock her in then throw the keys out. He was going to kick her ass so badly she wasn't going to sit for a month. He was going to… "Bruce?" Her voice interrupted his line of thoughts, and he heard sirens and alarms running in the background.

"Valerie?" he barked out, breathing heavily, pulling away from the alley, "Valerie, what are those sounds, where the hell are you?"

"Around," she said, giving out a breath with each word. "You're already surrounded left and right by the police, move to the north."

"The Irish are south."

She was silent for a second. "Ok. We need to form a plan. Soon the commissioner will need to divide the force in two, that would give you an opening—"

"What do you mean? What are those alarms?" he hissed out. "Valerie, what did you do?"

"I kind of blew up the Cartier shop on Tenth Avenue."

"_You did what?_"

"Not the _whole thing_—I took some of your toys. No one is hurt," she explained fast. "I pulled the guards out before the bombs went off."

"Valerie—someone might have gotten hurt," he said flatly.

"People might get hurt, Bruce, every minute. There is nothing you can do about it. Plus, for them it was a possibility, but for you…well if I didn't intervene, it was going to be a very close _inevitability_. I told you. I wouldn't like that happen."

Heart pounding in his chest, his side bleeding, he closed his eyes, breathing heavily, feeling elated. "Valerie—"

"You hurt, I get hurt," she cut him off heatedly, her voice blazing in his ear, "And I _don't_ like being hurt." She paused then, and her voice when she spoke next was collected. "Enough with the chit chat, what do you have in mind?"

Once they got out of here they were going to have a long talk, a very long talk, but first he needed to get out of here. "The Irish might get caught at any minute. I just need to make sure that they don't cause any trouble when they are."

She looked down at the palm computer and laughed into his ear. "Hah! Half of the force is moving away, they got it."

"You blew up a freaking Cartier shop!" he growled out. "Of course, they got it." He lifted his binocs and assessed the situation once again. "Okay, special forces and SWAT teams are ready. I'm going to cover them. You'll stay put and wait for my command. Are we clear?"

She was silent. "Valerie?" he barked out, agitated. "If you'll do something _stupid_ again, I swear—"

"Okay, okay—"she grunted. "I'll be good, whatever."

"Good," he growled out as she rolled her eyes.

* * *

When Selina came to, the first thing she noticed was pain, a scorching pain, her head broke in two with it, and there were tingles, countless tingles all over her body. That had been a bad idea, a very bad idea. She opened her eyes and encountered two big green eyes widened with worry and glazed with tears.

"Are—you okay?" the girl, barely sixteen, whispered to her.

"Yeah," she answered, straightening, one hand on her head, the other checking to see if the lacework mask was still on her face. It was. She looked around. They seemed to be in some kind of basement. "Where are we?"

"After, um you electrocuted him, I called police. I took you inside with me and hid here, the police took him away, unconscious, and I waited for you."

"Hmm…" she commented. "That was a good plan. Well done."

"Thank you," the girl whispered again, tears running over her bruised face. "Thank you… thank you so much… If you didn't, I don't know…"

She waved her hand in the air. "No worries," she paused, leaning back. "Why was he beating you?"

"I tried to escape."

"From what?"

"He—they force me to do things…when I refuse, he beats me."

She looked at her again, then her clothes… "Hmm…are you a prostitute?" she asked bluntly.

The girl ran her gaze away, ashamed. "Now, don't be ashamed because of any man's doings." She picked up her chin with her gloved hand, "Are you American?"

She shook his head, "Ukrainian—"

Then Selina understood better. "Why didn't you go with the police? Are you here legally?"

She shook her head, "Have only my passport… But they took it from us, and the police… they work with them."

She tilted her head and looked at her carefully. "You speak the language very well. How long have you been here?"

"Two years… They taught us."

"What's your name, dearie?"

"Holly—"She whispered between sobs.

"So Holly—do you have a place to go?" she hesitated before asking, "Anyone that could help you?"

She shook her head.

She looked at the young girl. Big eyes widened, face like a doll, a porcelain doll, the characteristic features of Eastern Europe's beauty; creamy skin, tilted sapphire eyes, long golden hair, and it was hard to ignore the innocence pouring out of every pore, hard to turn your back on it… She frowned behind her mask. This conscience thing was getting out of the control. She climbed to her feet, and wiggled her fingers at her. "Up, on your feet. We're going." She dusted off her costume's dirty places, tossing her hair. "And you can stay at my place."

* * *

God, if she kept doing this, someday she really would end up a mild, well-behaved, good girl, she thought, waiting beside the bike, her feet tapping on the pavement agitatedly. Patience, she could do patience. She'd given him a window of opportunity, the police's numbers had dwindled significantly, as she had assumed, and they were unlikely to cause much trouble for Bruce now. Cartier had already started to make a fuss about it, really just flashing and sounds, then a little gunpowder, all too easy. Then she grimaced. She managed to protect herself from the CCTVs but the mysterious woman in cat suit might be all over the place tomorrow morning, and if Bruce learned she'd pulled Selina Kyle into this little occurrence, he would have her head, at best. She would have to come up with something.

As if sensing her thoughts, Bruce's voice rasped into her ear, breath heavy and seemed to come with difficulty. "Are you okay?"

"Gordon got the Irish," he answered.

"Good. Are you okay?"

He didn't answer for a bit, and she grew more anxious, and if she wasn't too lost in her concerns for his wellbeing, she might even feel wonder for her reactions. But she was worried, so worried that even the wonder pushed itself to the back of her mind. "Bruce?"

"I'm fine—"He paused then confessed, voice seemed coming distant, far away. "Things didn't go as smooth as I planned…" He trailed off, breathing heavily then mumbled lethargically, "—lost blood more than…tolerable."

And the worry in her veins hit the bar and went over it. "Damn you to hell and back, Bruce Wayne!" She gave another look to the map, assessing the positions. "Don't lose consciousness," she warned. "Okay—okay…" She trailed the dots with her finger across the screen. "Okay, retreat back to the left side, on 21st Washington Street. I'll pick you up from there."

She fished her phone out of her pocket and dialed Ramirez, not even caring if Bruce could hear her. She'd passed beyond caring now. Ramirez answered on the first ring. "He's injured, on 21nd Washington Street. I'm sending you the exact location. Keep everyone else away till I get there."

Bruce's voice came into her ear. "You're not talking to me?"

She ignored his question while Ramirez went silent for a moment then she asked, "ETA?"

"Five minutes," Valerie answered, and added before closing the phone, "tops."

"Who did you talk to?"

She ignored Bruce once again and called Alfred. "Alfred, I need you pick us up at 21nd and Washington Street. He's losing consciousness. I can't bring him back on the bike. Can you be there in fifteen minutes?"

"Yes, Miss."

She gulped down. "Okay. We'll wait for you there. We might need a doctor, and call Fox too." She ignited the motor. "Bruce?"

"Who did you talk?" he asked again.

"Alfred. He's coming to collect us."

"No… before that—"He whispered, rasping.

"Don't worry yourself about it. Just stay awake, and don't close your eyes. Talk to me."

"Talk to you about what?"

"I don't know… things… stuff," she mumbled as the bike's tires barely touched on the asphalt, "at the moment I don't particularly care as long as you do."

"Valerie—" he started then stopped.

"Bruce—!" she cried, "Bruce, talk to me. Stay awake."

"Stay awake," he mumbled.

"Stay awake, yes." She pulled the throttle with two fingers, the needle touched the base.

"—don't close your eyes."

"Yes, don't close your eyes."

She pulled the brake forcefully, approaching 21nd, and the bike slid through the street, losing its momentum. It inclined towards the pavement, and she got herself out at the last moment before it crashed into a wall. Taking her helmet out, she ran toward the left, as Ramirez cleared out of the shadows. She bypassed her, still running, giving directives. "We still need to have ten minutes to clear off. Then another five." The police officer nodded, her eyes watching curiously. "Can you deal with the bike too?" That was asking too much of one person but she was running out of options.

"Consider it done," Ramirez answered though, eyes sparkling, the shadows she had always observed before were nowhere to be seen. Then Valerie gathered this woman would do anything, anything at all to get them clear tonight, safely, to pay her debt. Briefly faltering in her steps, she turned back. "I knew I wasn't going to regret my decision too that day, Anna. _Thank you._" Then she turned on her heels and ran again.

There he was, sprawled in the dark corners at the end of the street, bleeding on the pavement. She slid on her feet then threw herself on her knees, her hands pressed down on his side, over the plates, as she leaned over his body. "Bruce, no…no, open your eyes…" His gaze, unfocused, found her. "Good, all way back—"

"Don't close your eyes…" he murmured.

"Yes, dear, don't close your eyes. Alfred is coming in minutes."

"Stay awake—"

"Yes, yes, stay awake," she said, smiling, eyes burning.

"Mary Poppins," he said then.

"What?"

"Mary Poppins…the movie, don't close your eyes, stay awake, don't close your eyes, stay awake… She signs it to children when they don't want to sleep—they sleep then…" Under the cowl, he looked at her with unfocused eyes. "We used to watch it together, me, dad, ma, all the time. I liked it too much… never got bored of it—Supercalli—fragilistic—expialidocious—" He paused, his breath labored as she looked at him, confused.

"What?"

"A perfectly good word. Did you see the movie?"

She shook her head. "No… I didn't."

His gauntleted hand reached out to cup her cheek, "'Tis okay. I'll show it to you."

She drew in a ticked breath, gulped down through a lump in her throat and bit her inner cheek to keep the tears at bay. "Yes." She caught the hand on her cheek and pulled it down, and pressed on his side, and they waited there, hands tangled until Alfred came.

Ramirez was already gone when Alfred pulled up in the Bentley at the beginning of the street, and together they stuffed Bruce in. She crawled in too, on the floor beside him as Alfred drove the car. "Miss Valerie, the emergency kit on the back." She nodded, reaching over his body for the kit. "I called Fox, he arranged for Dr. Thompkins. We're taking him to her clinic. She was one of the closest friends of Master Wayne's father, she'll help him."

"Alfred—"Bruce started to protest but Valerie beat him to it.

"Don't protest. You need a doctor and surgery."

"I'm fine—"

"Oh, shut up!"

* * *

_A/N: This must be one of the fluttiest thing I've ever written, and I guess we can blame the blood loss for Mr. Wayne's state of a babbling silly-head. Though, I really like the sentiment behind it, obviously :)_

_Selina... Selina sort of shaped herself after I saw Black Swan when I started to write her parts. I was overwhelmed by the movie, and in my version she ended up as the Black Swan; beautiful, smart, and delirious. If she wasn't canonly Catwoman, I'd have even named her as Black Swan.:) And one of my other stories called 'Some Like it Hot' takes place during the night when Selina and Bruce slept together, Bruce's first. __I'd make a little bit alterations when I posted it, but generally, it's that, and you'll see the original one in the second book. Truthfully,__ I've been always a BatCat fan, and I couldn't do this story in any other way, because I feel like Bruce Wayne somehow has to be involved with Selina Kyle in every interpretation of his tale. That's what they are._

_Now, for the next part, I'm having a bit of problem with one of the glitch that I discovered some time ago, and so far I couldn't sort it out. We'll see together how much the motivation it's gonna be posting here to sort those issues,(oh dear god, I have such problems with epilogue too, ties in, hate those!) so you know, I'd use all the incentive in the world. _

_(That means, 'please review, if you believe it to be worthy.' I prefer, 'do motivate me!', Mom possibly would say, 'do your own job yourself.)_


	28. Chapter 25

_A/N: Another long chapter, first thought to divide it half but then realized that I can't do it. Not this one._

**Chapter Twenty-Five:**

* * *

Thirty paces to the left, forty two to the right; the long narrow corridor was a humble pristine white, with walls covered with several warnings against drugs, drinking and smoking. Located on the skirts of Crime Alley, the clinic was a safe haven for those poor souls trying to make a home in the harsh cruelty of the Narrows.

She wore out the tiles under her feet, pacing back and forth. Her steps halted as the clock on the wall hit six, the two needles pointing in opposite directions, and she could almost hear a ghostly chime in her mind; ominous, brooding, calling. She turned to the side to catch the sight of pale sunrise, a new day bringing new things, and all that fucking jazz. No, the new day didn't bring her anything particularly new. Three hours, one-hundred-eighty minutes, ten-thousand-eight-hundred seconds… Her fingers fisted beside her hips, she turned back to resume pacing.

One…two…three…twenty one…thirty…she stopped in front of the wide doors of what passed as an operating room in the merry facility for junkies, and a hand touched her shoulder. She pivoted her head to the side, and frowned at the sympathetic look on Alfred's face.

He offered her the tea he had brought. She turned back, faced the door. "I need a drink," she shook her head, and amended. "I need _lots_ of drinks."

"It's not our lucky night," Alfred agreed.

She let out a loaded sigh, turned around and rested her back against the wall beside the door. "No, it is not—"She cast a glance toward the door. "Do you think I could sneak in?"

"That's probably not a very good idea, miss."

She shrugged then bowed her head, the tip of her left foot playing with the tiles. "Has he been shot before?"

"Yes. When Mr. Dent died," Alfred paused a little, "That night wasn't a lucky one either."

She mumbled something inscrutable, then lifted her head. "Is it always like this?"

It was Alfred who was looking in the direction of the door this time. "More or less, yes." She bowed her head again, crossed her arms under her breasts, and Alfred spoke this time with a definitive voice. "He's a fighter, he'll be okay."

"He'd better be," she answered heatedly, lifting her head up. Dying on her, leaving her to deal with the aftermath, no, that wouldn't be a gentleman doing. "I've prepared a long list of thank-you-gifts, and I mean to collect them."

* * *

It had been a long time since the last time Leslie Tompkins had done something like this. Her fingers trembled at first, her limbs hesitated, and she hadn't been really a good trauma doctor in the first place, her priorities had always laid someplace else, but thankfully the son of Thomas Wayne was a true survivor.

Wearily her gaze traveled upward, toward the countless scars, and wounds, and bruises, some in passing, some reasonably new, and some already old and faded. She sighed. So that was what Bruce Wayne had become. Some part of Leslie found the idea revolting, some part found it a little bit heroic, stupid but still heroic, especially after Lucius had explained what he'd done for the city, but the biggest part of her found it relieving, relieving that the only child of Martha and Thomas was not a bloody idiot after all.

She exited the operation room to the scrub room, and pulled off her latex gloves, threw them in the medical waste bin, and went to wash her hands. Lucius joined her beside the basin. "Thank you, Leslie," he said, pulling off his gloves. "We appreciate it."

"And so you should," she shot back, feeling some objections should be made at least. "I can't believe that he's talked you into this." She shook her head. "I mean, I can see Alfred, he's always had a soft spot for the boy but—"She shook her head again. "What's your excuse?"

"Well, technically, I've no idea what you're talking about," Fox answered diplomatically. "Mr. Wayne has a tendency to hurt himself in the most interesting situations."

She sent him a glower. "Lucius," she started sharply, pulling off her scrubs, "no one likes smart asses."

Fox smirked, pulling his own clothes back into place too. "His heart is in a good place."

"I don't doubt that," she replied. "What worries me isn't his heart though, but more like his body." They walked outside, shoulder to shoulder, "Did you see his scars, his wounds? He needs medical attention, not just when he's about to die of blood loss."

"You're right, of course," Fox pulled the handle and held the door open for her, "as always."

Leslie first saw Alfred beside the doors of the emergency room, then in front of him, the girl she had seen several times in the tabloids together with Bruce. She looked different now, less glamorous clad in simple jeans and t-shirt, matted, darkest brown hair fell over her shoulders, her eyes glinted with worry and … she couldn't decide… anger? Yes. She looked worried and very pissed off.

Suddenly, her eyes met hers. The woman dropped her arms and asked, "Well, is he alive?"

Interesting, most people would only manage to ask 'is he alright' or 'he'll be okay, right?' She cast a glance at Fox, who was grimacing, then toward Alfred, who was watching the scene expressionless. "Yes," she answered.

She closed her eyes momentarily, then opened again, drawing in a rough breath. "Good," she nodded, "good, can I see him?"

"I'm keeping him unconscious," she paused, "we're going to have to settle him in one of the rooms."

His girlfriend shook her head. "Too dangerous, we'll take him back home."

"He needs medical attention."

She smiled, her lips pulling out forcibly. "You can come visit us," she started walking, bypassing them to push the door open. "Alfred makes amazing tea."

"You can't go in," Leslie protested, as she slid through, "infections—"

"He'll survive."

She looked after her vanishing back then looked at first Alfred, then turned to Lucius. "What's her deal?"

Lucius shook his head, "You don't want to know."

* * *

Gordon returned to his office after the Irish were sent off to MCU's headquarters, fixed himself a stiff drink and gulped it down in one swing. His predecessor had been right. He'd needed a lot of drinks since he had been promoted to the commissioner.

Batman had been shot. The thug that claimed to have taken the lucky shot had been sure, but they didn't find anything to prove it. Thank god, thank god for small miracles.

The tip on the Irish's shipment had come in at the last minute, directly to MCU via the Mayor's Office. He couldn't warn him beforehand. Alexander Ivakonovic had been taken by Interpol last week, and now this. And Batman hadn't told him anything, had kept it from him, and that meant their partnership had taken more blows than he had assumed at their last meeting.

He cursed loudly. Damn it, damn it! And if it wasn't enough already, there had been a bombing in Cartier, in a freaking Cartier shop. Cartier had already made calls to the Mayor, and directly to him, the insurance investigators had already started to demand to inspect the crime scene. Luckily there had been no loss of life, the bodyguards had been lured outside before the bombs went off. They'd given testaments that a thief in a black, skin-tight leather suit had broken in but she hadn't stolen anything.

He didn't understand it, except it seemed like a good distraction… Batman… could he have done it? It certainly looked like one of his things… Loud, big, and lots of attention drawing without anyone getting… permanently hurt. Then he'd have had to have a helping hand. The skin tight cat-suit woman? Evidently both had a thing for costumes.

While he was assessing the last thought, the Mayor walked into his office. He sighed. Just when he was thinking this evening couldn't get any worse.

Garcia threw himself in the seat in front of his desk. "We have a problem," he said. "Bullock's team has…sort of kidnapped that gum man from Larkin Station," he grimaced. "You're giving them too much slack, Jim, all of them."

"What?" Gordon shook his head. "What was that man doing in Larkin Station?"

"_Batman_ dropped him there," he replied furiously.

"Oh, Jesus," Gordon passed his hand through his hair. Why he was always the last one who learned everything at the last? That wasn't a good position for a man in his position to be, not certainly. He frowned. "Do you think he's talked?"

"He didn't to us," Garcia paused, "He has ASD. I believe he didn't talk to the Bat either."

He nodded. What a fucking nightmarish clusterfuck. And in three days it would be Harvey Dent's first Memorial Day. He sighed loudly.

"We need to get him out of there, ASAP," Garcia went on, "If he spills the beans, especially now—"He trailed off.

Gordon grimaced. "We could talk to him. We have to learn the name of the third victim."

The Mayor looked at him blankly then ran his gaze away. Gordon narrowed his eyes. He'd never trusted this man, but he'd never been suspicious of his motives either. If he was hiding something from him now, he knew… he knew it was something big. "We can't… we can't make deals with him. We can't even keep him inside long. The only evidence against him is that caretaker but no jury would take that old crazy alcoholic man seriously."

Gordon leaned forward. "Garcia, you're aware of the fact that he's planning to kill another person, and we're pushing our only real lead to the man back with our own hands?"

"He didn't talk to Batman, or else Batman would surely have warned you lot." Would he? Gordon realized that he didn't have any certain answer for that anymore. "He knows how to get what he needs. And he dropped him on your head, Gordon. What makes you think you could do the thing _he_ couldn't?"

For that Gordon hadn't any answer so he kept his silence. Garcia sighed again wearily. "I got a call from the Wayne Enterprises CEO," he said suddenly, "several days ago, when the second victim had been found. They had a scanner equipment for subterranean observation. They've been working on it, it's still not ready but he'd called us to let us know we could use it in a case of necessity. He called me this morning, said that it was coming around. I'll ask for it, for any case. It might help."

Gordon nodded.

"You have to get him out of there," Garcia said, and Gordon nodded back again.

* * *

His eyelids opened as his senses slowly returned. Fighting with the distortion, Bruce looked around, and saw himself in his room, in his bed. Valerie was slumped in the armchair beside it, with her feet propped on his mattress. He poked her legs with his foot. She stirred first, kicked his foot back in reflex then opened her eyes. "Hey," he muttered groggily.

She straightened, dropped her legs down, and stood up to sit on the edge of the bed. "Hey yourself," she returned the greeting. "How are you feeling? Dizzy, nauseous, distorted, in pain?" She paused for a breath then went on. "Dr. Tompkins gave us all kind of drugs, dreadful woman, but a decent doctor."

"I'm fine—"

"Really," she put her hand against his forehead, "you seem a little hot." She gave him a playful small wink. "Hotter than usual, I mean."

He pushed her hand back, started to raise his body, "I'm fine—"Valerie stood up, leaned forward to help him. "I could use a glass of water, though, thank you very much."

She ruffled his pillows, stuffed them behind him and he rested his back against them. "Sure thing," she smiled before hurrying to his wet bar. She trotted back, and brought the glass to his lips, one hand gently supporting his head. Momentarily Bruce was in wonder of her gentle motions, who could guess? She was quite the mother hen. Then a fit of nausea hit him as the water slid towards his belly, his face soured, as he broke out in a cold sweet. Valerie pulled back the glass, and examined him with a skeptical look, as Bruce leaned forward trying to grab her. She took a step back, "Don't puke all over me."

So much for being a mother hen, Bruce amended his thought, dropping himself back on the mattress. Valerie bent over him, still looking at him closely. "Are you fine?"

"Yes," he mumbled. "Water…not a good idea though."

"Yeah, probably," she agreed, straightening her back.

He looked at her, closed his eyes, opened them again, and started, "Valerie—"

She cut him off with an exaggerated huff, "Bruce—you were just bleeding all over the places only a couple of hours ago. You can shout at me later." She gave him another little wink. "I'm not going anywhere." Despite himself, despite the situation, Bruce laughed faintly, shaking his head. She bent down, and gave him a sound kiss on the cheek. "Now, rest, dearest friend, sleep."

* * *

After Bubble Gum had exited the police headquarters the first thing he did was buy a packet of Bubble Gum. He threw the gum into his mouth, and began chewing.

How he loved when things went according to the plan.

He walked around for a couple of hours, and when he was sure no one was tailing him, he returned to the one bedroom flat, filthy and small, but still home.

He found Bastard as much as the way he'd left, waiting for him. When Bastard saw him entering, he smiled big, and rushed to his side. "That clever son of a bitch," he exclaimed merrily, "you clever sons of bitches." He caught his head under his armpit, and squeezed it. "You dolt, you dolt, you gave me a fucking nightmare, man… you beautiful dolt…" he said, smiling.

Bubble Gum smiled back, pulling out of his clutch, and shoved him in the chest. "You're_ beautiful_, bastard." He laughed again, popping his gum out as Bastard wrapped his arm around his shoulder.

"Come, let's celebrate, bro," Bastard said laughing, "Let's have a couple of good drinks, and find a couple of good asses then celebrate." Bubble nodded, because he always did, it didn't matter who the girls were, or why they kept looking at each other while fucking them merciless; hard, from behind, their gazes stuck on each other. They'd never talked about it, and they didn't need to. Bubble knew it, Bastard knew it, even though both would never mention it.

"Yes, let's go," he said instead, wrapping his arm around his shoulder. "His birthday is coming."

* * *

All the city's personages; the Mayor, and every politician looking to hobnob with him, the Commissioner, the DA, police officers of all ranks, different faces from City Hall and other less glamorous faces from society had all gathered around Robinson Park, standing respectful and mourning. Bruce Wayne was missing.

The blonde on TV speculated he was probably wasted from the night before and completely forgot it. Valerie, sitting next to Alfred on the couch, watched the first Memorial Day of Harvey Dent, her eyes squinted in fury, blood drumming in her ears, and felt actually glad that he had been shot just so he didn't have to see this atrocity.

She felt tears from anger and unfairness burning her eyes as her hands pulled into fists beside her hips.

Then she remembered that along with Rachel's death-day, he'd missed her birthday too.

* * *

When Valerie walked in, Ramirez was already sitting on a stool at the bar. She briefly haltered on her steps before collecting herself back. She wondered if Bruce was remembering that telephone conversation. He'd been in and out of consciousness for three days now, but if he remembered that too, well, she would probably be in some serious trouble.

One problem at a time, she told herself. First deal with Ramirez, then Bruce… then there was the matter with Selina too. _Well, fuck…_ she muttered. But she made a decision that night, and she was going to see through consequences. She didn't regret her decision, no, she didn't. Bruce had returned, and that was the only thing that mattered. Yet it was better not to wake up _that_ sleeping giant as long as it slept.

She walked with decisive paces, and sat beside Ramirez. The detective gaze flickered toward her, eyes burning with a new found flare, and Valerie let herself relax a little bit. This woman was a fighter, fighting for her own absolution, fighting for forgiveness. Whenever she stumbled, she was going to pick herself up. She'd made the right choice.

Ramirez's gaze turned back to the scotch in her hands. "I can't believe how I didn't see it in the first place. It's so in plain sight."

She frowned. "Excuse me?"

"You… in the tabloids with—Richie Rich… You seemed more familiar after our first meeting. Now I understand. You were familiar," she smiled gently, "because I've been seeing you."

_Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…FUCK! _She was growing soft, old! So soft…and, so old. How could she have skipped over this? Bruce, when he learned of it, was going to have her head…seriously, he was going to have her head. Bruce fucking Wayne… it was all his fault anyway; he had made her soft.

_Ok, don't freak out_, she warned herself. _Damage control._ She smiled back. "He's been worried about his…financier," she said carefully, "after the Joker business."

Ramirez nodded thoughtfully. "I know Wayne's family was murdered when he was a child, so that's why he's helping him?"

"I'm sure Mr. Wayne has his own reasons, detective."

Ramirez nodded again then skipped a curious eye to her. "So you're not really his girlfriend then?"

"I'm his _bodyguard_. We spun the girlfriend part later for plausible deniability."

"I see… So when he got worried about his pocket, he sent you to protect…the money," Ramirez clarified.

Valerie rolled her eyes. "Didn't you see the stuff he's using? They're not exactly Wal-Mart quality."

Ramirez laughed softly, bowing her head. Valerie dropped all the pretenses and looked at the detective hard. It was time to finish this business. "The problem is that, Anna," she chose to go on with first name basis once again. "You know about us more than you should. And in my experience that's usually bad news."

Ramirez lifted her head up and held her stare defiantly. "I won't betray you."

"I know," she said seriously. "But in my experience it's also the best to talk about some things beforehand so it may be possible to forestall some possible unnecessary misunderstandings." Ramirez nodded. "The thing is, my dear detective, in essence we're much alike. I betrayed him once, just like you, but he chose to help me instead. He trusts me, he _believes_ in me. You know what it means. Gordon believed in you too when he shouldn't have. So you also understand how precious, how rare a thing it is."

Her gaze grew harder as her voice turned to stone. "His belief, his trust is crucial to me. It's the most beautiful thing ever happened to me. It makes me a good person, makes me want to try to be better. It makes me feel like I am carrying a heart in my chest instead of just a pumping machine."

"So I beg you, Ramirez, with all of my _heart_, tread carefully with the secrets you know." She paused for a breath, her throat thick, the words like beads made of glass, heavy and leaden, like the truths which they were. "Tread carefully, because if something happens because of your carelessness, because of your negligence, intentionally or not, if something happens to him and I lose that unique thing, I'll lose my heart."

Ramirez nodded again. "You don't need to worry. I won't betray him again."

Valerie shook her head, grabbed her arm, and tightened her fingers. "You don't understand. I don't need to worry. It's you who needs to worry. Because rest assured, in such a case, I won't stop till I rip the heart out of you too."

* * *

Selina sat on her couch watching TV while Holly made them tea. She was a good girl, had a cheerful personality, at least when she wasn't crying, and Selina made it her job seeing that she didn't. She took a sip of the tea, eyes carefully following the late night news, and thank goodness, the little girl was a decent tea maker too. One of the things she'd missed the most from London was the excellent tea—Gothamites never seemed to get the importance of tea making.

London was a good city, a good place to live, and she'd always liked it, and it always would hold a very special place in her heart, but Gotham was a good place too, had a character like London, different yet similar. London was cool from its raining to its metal colored sky and Gotham was a blaze of heat, always translucent and wavering; demanding, promising, glamorous, yet deceptive.

She'd hated that before, now she found it intriguing, even fitting.

Her eyes gleamed as she watched the tall dark slender figure in lustrous leather on the screen while Vicki Vale depicted the curious happenings of three days ago. The blonde reporter was evidently smart, managing to pick up seemingly unrelated threats, and tie them each other, and asking some interesting questions. She smirked, and her hand found the flash bomb she'd saved from that day.

She twirled it between her fingers, eyes carefully studying the Wayne Tech logo on the bottom, her smirk growing bigger. It was time to hear from an old friend.

"Holly," she called for her new _roommate_, "My phone please?"

Holly came with her phone two seconds after, handed to her, eyes reddened. "Now, crying again, are we?" she asked with displeasure coloring her voice. "What did I tell you?"

"I'm—sorry," the girl whimpered, "I—I—"

She stood up from her armchair, walked toward to the girl. "I know, dearie, I know." She patted her on the arm. "Do you know what we'll do tomorrow?" she asked eagerly, "We'll _camouflage_ you and go on a shopping trip. Look at those clothes!" She waved her hands at her clothes, the ones she'd had on herself when she'd saved the girl. "No wonder you feel so down. I'd be devastated too if someone saw me in—"A nonchalant hand waved in the air toward her again, "—_these_. Now, I have a business I need to handle, why don't you call it a night?"

Holly nodded, and went to the second bedroom she'd prepared for herself. Selina watched her retreating back, slapping the phone on one side of her leg softly. She was a good girl, quite a help, and a decent tea maker. She needed someone to provide for her, and Selina needed someone for her legwork. _It's a fair bargain_, she thought congratulating herself for she had apparently put a hold on that conscience thing… It seemed she hadn't grown a heart all of a sudden.

She dialed the number. The other end was picked up on the third ring. "No calls, no emails, not even a simple text message… I'm wounded."

Her geek-boy was startled for a moment before he could answer, "Selina?"

"Well, at least you still remember my name."

"Err—I wasn't sure if I was supposed to call you again," he said hesitantly. She could understand. She hadn't planned on calling him again either but these new _developments_ were demanding a change of plans. It was time to determinate how much the glamour of a woman could subside a man's suspicions.

"Now, why would you think something like that?"

He stayed silent for a while then finally said, "I was just being foolish."

She laughed out, content, twirling the flash bomb in her fingers.

* * *

Valerie slid the door open and popped her head inside, drumming her fingers playfully on the surface. Bruce turned his head toward her, she smiled, "Aren't you supposed to tell me come in?"

Bruce rolled his eyes slightly, putting the newspaper he was reading aside on the armchair. He was still dressed in pajamas, even though he was much better than three days ago. "You were supposed to ask that _before_ opening the door," he commented softly, watching her as she swayed into his room.

She lifted a shoulder. "Well, I'll get it right the next time."

She stopped in front of his armchair, looked down. He looked up at her, then she lifted her left leg up, propped her foot over his right knee. She swung it toward the left side, and smiled. "Like it? Your _gift_, you have excellent taste."

He stared at her. "And the dress, of course." She dropped the foot, rubbed her hands down her sides. "You even got me new lingerie from Victoria's, quite tasteful_, _wanna see?" she asked, hands flew towards the side of the dress where the zipper was as Bruce hastily answered.

"I'll take your word for it."

Her hands paused on the zipper. "You can have the first-_eye_ experience."

"I'll take your word for it," he repeated again.

She shrugged, still smiling. "Your loss," Then she bent down prying at him, "How have you been?"

"I'm fine," Bruce waved his hand at her. "Valerie sit, we have to talk."

She made a face, "I don't like the sound of it."

"Sit," Bruce stressed the word again. She did, propping her hip on the armrest of the armchair, and swung her legs over his knees. He let her. "Okay, talk. What's happened?"

"This and that, you know, the usual. You'll never believe what's happening on _One Life to Live,_" she said conversationally. He gave her a pointed look. She let out a big huff of breath, looking down. "You're my friend, Bruce, the only one I've ever had. I don't want to see you… hurt."

"Valerie, this is my choice, and I'm willing to take consequences of it, but only me. I told you that before. I won't have you in an actual fight."

Letting out another breath, she hopped off, crouched beside his legs to face with him. She put one hand over his knee, and when she spoke her voice soft yet serious, her expression earnest. "Imagine our positions were reversed. What would you do? Would you leave me there alone?" she asked and continued before he could answer. "You wouldn't. You _didn't_. This…this might be your choice but it's my choice too now. I'm not here because I don't have anywhere else to go, that was long ago. I'm here because I genuinely want to be here. So don't expect me sit on my ass while you're in fatal danger. I won't do that."

Bruce looked at her, for a long time, while her words sank deep inside. He wondered if it was the time to just pull her up and kiss her senseless. Yet something, the same reservation still hindered him, the reservations he had every right to feel. He forcibly turned his thoughts from that path, nodding pensively. "I'm not used to be a team player," he said at last.

Shrugging, she stood up. "Get used to it then."

He smiled faintly at his own words. She smiled back.

"We'll just have to learn play along." She rested on the armrest again, leaving her legs planted on the floor this time. "And we'll have to determine a few points, when you feel a little bit better. I can't believe we haven't done it before." Her gaze skipped toward him. "I'm really growing old—"

"Yes, we're going to determine a few points," Bruce cut her off, "and I feel just fine now." He pointed at the newspaper, where Vicki Vale made an interesting inquiry about the occurrences of the night the Irish had gotten caught, and there was the mention Cartier's bombing, and she reported a woman in a skin-tight leather suit had been sighted. "What did you do at Cartier? And what about that suit?"

Her face momentarily showed panic before she schooled it into indifference, Bruce frowned. "I used your entrance bombs, and used the suit and flash bombs to distract the guards." She giggled. "Oh, they were quite ogling me."

He ignored the last comment. "Where did you find the suit?"

"Oh, I had it prepared for Halloween."

"For Halloween?" he asked, "It's August!"

She shrugged. "I like to be prepared." Her eyes gleamed as she leaned forward. "Actually I got the idea from you, theatricality." She smirked. "I'm considering the name cat…woman, how does it sound?"

Bruce gave her a blank look. "Now, I can't be _Batwoman_… cats are pretty, bats are ugly, no offense." She smiled, waved her hands off then said, "It served its purpose."

Bruce nodded. "Ramirez?"

She let out a little sigh, "So you gathered that too."

"_Yes_."

"I went to find her when I returned to the city. I thought it might prove useful to have a mole in the force in a case of emergency. You have Gordon, but a commissioner is a commissioner. We need a more direct contact. And I was right. She helped us. I couldn't do it all by myself." She paused to look at Bruce's face, his expression passive and cut of stone. "I know you're…angry at her, for what she did…" she started again, "and you have every right to be but she…she's trying to apologize for what she did." She looked at him, eyes widened. "Redemption and whatnot," she paused again, fear creeping in her voice, "Are we going to have an episode?"

"No… just don't do this—"He leaned forward, and captured her gaze, "Don't go behind my back, Valerie. Don't run your schemes. We're _friends_."

She looked away, and nodded.

Bruce sighed out heavily. "She recognized you, didn't she? From the tabloids?"

She sighed hugely, throwing her arms up. "I still have a very memorable face, it's definitely a bane."

"I just knew it was a mistake to go along with your proposal," he grunted under his breath then looked back up at her. "Okay, what did you feed her?"

"What I thought first. You, backing and banking Batman," she faltered for a second, "and I've been sent to protect the money."

He bowed his head and propped his hand on his temple. "This sounds bad."

"It could be worse," she said, shrugging. "She won't betray you, Bruce, I know it. I—_trust_ her with that." She paused for a second, her eyes getting heated. "And she knows that even if she dares to attempt such a thing, I'll tear her life to shreds." She bowed her head. "I made that point quite clear."

He gave her a look, eyes squinted. "Valerie, is there anything else you'd like to tell me?"

She worried her bottom lip for a second, then returned her eyes on him and smiled, "When are we going to go to the Irish pub?"

* * *

Leslie Thompskin sipped from the tea Alfred had prepared, and nodded approvingly. The girl was right. Alfred was still an excellent tea maker. She'd arrived half an hour ago, dressed young Wayne's bandages and had left his bedroom with Alfred on her tail. She frowned at her cup, and asked, "So you say she's not really his girlfriend, but his—um, _sidekick_?"

Alfred nodded.

"But they pretended to be lovers for show," she asked again, and Alfred nodded again. She frowned further. "But you think they're in love with each other."

Alfred paused a little, "Most of the time, yes."

"And the rest of the time?"

Alfred shrugged elegantly. "They just try to stab each other where it hurts most."

"If you only knew how ridiculous this all sounds."

"Well, dear Leslie," Alfred answered with a gentle tone. "It only sounds ridiculous until you hear yourself saying 'I'm a vigilante's closest confident who is in love with an unstable, dangerous, manipulative former thief and con-artist who first tried to steal from him, then blackmailed him, _then_ tried to expose him for money, even pulled a gun on him while trying to steal from him _again, _who changed her face to get out of the mess she'd put herself in and he's doing everything—including executing a very fine array of manipulative skills, up to refusing her advances despite his own urges—to get her to admit her feelings."

* * *

Bruce went to the cemetery alone the following day.

The grass was green, the sun was bright, the weather was warm and gentle; it would have been a perfect day for a funeral. He put the flower on her stone marker, and sat beside the grave. One year… and three days… He shook his head. "I'm sorry, Rachel, I'm so very truly sorry."

He didn't talk further, just stayed there, looking at her tombstone, waiting for that sharp pain to come, but instead all he felt was a throbbing ache just under his skin, a dash at the surface. He sighed, standing up.

On his way back, he remembered that much like Rachel's death day, he had missed Valerie's birthday. Then he realized something that had escaped his notice before. He fished out his phone and checked the dates. They corresponded.

He felt something grasp his heart, squeezed it until his vision darkened, his body turned to stone, blood ringing in his eardrums. She had decided—had decided that she had been born the very day Bruce had saved her with the crash.

On his way back to the manor, Bruce bought her a bracelet, nothing fancy, no gold, no diamonds, no precious stones, just a simple bracelet, with fake gold and fake sparkling stones, the only thing he could find in the street stall that resembled her father's first gift.

When gave it to her, she bowed her head, as he clasped it around her wrist. "Th—thank you," she whispered under her breath, her voice thick, and faltering.

He found her gaze under her bowed head. "I'm sorry for not being around on your birthday."

Her pulse accelerated under his fingers as she nodded, and he realized that she'd realized that he'd realized. Then she smiled, and he saw the light. "It's okay. You can make it up next year."

* * *

When the Chief suddenly perked in the passenger seat, and threw himself out of the car, Burke's first thought had been of those new cars the department had been given. Burke had thought the gesture incredibly insincere, and shush money-esque, and therefore had refused to drive them, but there was a hard truth that no pestilent facts could cloud over. If they'd used the new cars, the Chief couldn't have jumped out of the still running cars as easily as he did now.

Swearing loudly, he parked the car in the middle of the road and sprinted after him. "Chief—"He yelled as soon as he saw the Chief forcibly divide a curious crowd with hands and arms, and a few meters away from him, he saw a teenage brunette girl, whom he was trying to approach. The girl was wearing a red dress.

Of course.

Escalating his speed, Burke ran more.

By the time he reached the spot, the Chief had already caught the girl, the grip on her shoulders were tight like clamps, as the girl screaming off..."Get your hands off of me, you freak—" An older man beside the girl was trying to get her out of his clutches, "Let the girl go, you maniac—let the—"

Burke shoved the man aside, and got between in the girl and the Chief. "Ma'am, please, don't be afraid, he means no harm to you. He thought you someone else."

The girl didn't look like she got it though. "LET GO OF ME, YOU FREAKS!"

"Chief—"He tried to break his grip too, "Chief, come on, you're frightening the girl—and you old man, stop kicking his legs—"The hands holding the girl though were getting more locked on the shoulders the more they tried to get her free. Burke turned his head aside, where the curious crowd was still watching the scene. "You—all of you get lost," he turned to the Chief. "Sorry, chief."

He then head butted him.

x

It had seemed like a good plan, but now, when the time came to its execution, suddenly the whole thing seemed like the worst one in the world. He cast a glance to the Chief's unconscious body. He needed to carry on. The time for dawdling had past, it was time for action. Better or worse, the Chief had to move on. No, it surely wasn't the most well-thought plan in the world, but for now it was the only plan he had.

He parked the car in front of the gates of the Gotham General Cemetery.

x

When he opened his eyes, first Bullock couldn't gather where he was. With the first dazzlement of coming around and with the feel of being truly lost, he looked around and saw two big hands approaching him. He took the two pain killers the hands held and swallowed them waterless. His left hand flew toward his forehead where a bump had already formed on his skull. His gaze then skipped toward the gates. His sight was still dazed, and not only his eyes but his mind too, a soft droning like the sound of slow waves hitting small pebbles on the coast drumming in his ears.

He looked at Burke, and Burke looked back at him. "I talked with the Professor—"the young man started but he didn't listen. He opened the car's door and got out.

He looked at the wide, massive gates, and the whole graveyard lying behind it, vast and never-ending, the curt marble stone marks stood always in waiting. He started to walk in, past the endless stone marks, he didn't even know how he knew the path, but that was his path, his own one, and if he couldn't find the way, then he would become truly lost. He stood in front of the one, and he could have thought it was the same as the countless others if there wasn't that little script scorching the letters into his eyes, on his flesh, on his mind, on his heart.

_Laura Bullock_

_28 Jan 1989 – Forever_

_Rest in Peace_

He stood there, looking at the gravestone, with the fear of someone who stood in front of a crossroads, facing a choice, and with the disturbance of someone who was a little bit too late for that particular faithful moment. Her tomb was well-kept, the wild grass neatly groomed, the marked stone shining in the sunshine. Suddenly a ghostly figure of a red coated girl appeared over the horizon. He closed his eyes, rubbed them with his fists and tried to take comfort in the darkness. When he opened his eyes, everything still seemed the same.

He sensed Burke's presence next to him. "I tried to keep it well-tended, chief," he said slowly, his young face slowly skipping off of the grave toward him. He nodded, and Burke nodded back. "Come on, let's go, chief." He sighed out. "The good doesn't last long."

He nodded again, but didn't turn back, instead took a step forward and approached the grave. He crouched down next to the gravestone, took his Swiss jackknife out of his pocket, and scratched the 'forever' then slowly carved the date on the marble.

When he finished, he stood up and turned on his heels. Burke was staring at him, his eyes narrowed, and he stared back. "Are you okay, chief?"

There was only one thing that had remained that he'd wanted to say after the day he'd stopped talking. He opened up his mouth, coughed a little from being out of practice, and said, "Don't talk nonsense."

Burke's face split in two with a sudden wide lopsided smile, and then he exclaimed regardless of his surroundings, "Aiiiiiii, chief, you start talking?"

He started to walk, Burke falling next to him, "Thanks to you…"

The young man's smile grew even wider, as they walked away from the ghosts of the past, "Sooooo…"Burke started, "Aren't you going to say anything else?"

He pulled a Marlboro out of his pocket, and put it on the corner of his lips. "Shut up, Tommy."

_She seemed calm now as she sat down on the couch, her long boney fingers playing with the little paper sheet in her hand. She had lost a lot of weight in the last year. He took another sip from his drink, and watched the lioness get her teeth into her prey on the screen. She wasn't interested though, the TV was an old one, some fifteen years old, and perhaps he should get a new one, one of those skinny things, perhaps even cable. She was trying._

_She lowered her gaze, and slowly said, "Suicide hasn't got any point to glorify—" and he knew what was on that paper she was twirling, "yet guests have to know not to overstay their welcome, and what are we people in this world but guests?" He stared at her, and she stared back. "A suicide note?" she asked slowly._

"_My newest case," he softly replied, as if it could explain everything else._

_She didn't understand of course. "Are you looking into suicides now too?"_

"_It was a questionable suicide, I wanted to be sure."_

_She held his gaze. "So…were you right?"_

_His eyes flicked outside. "Someone threw her off a café rooftop."_

"_And the note?"_

"_Something she wrote for her English class long ago. We found it posted on her blog later, she named it Death Day."_

_She turned her gaze away too. "Why did they kill her?"_

"_His father had some debts he couldn't pay off, and his debtors, they wanted some—compensation."_

_She stayed silent for a while then slowly said, "It must be horrible for him, being the reason for the death of your own child."_

"_It…was."_

_Her gaze found his, and she asked, "Would you feel bad if something happened to me, father?"_

_His look hardened, as his eyes narrowed, "Of course, I would. What kind of question is that?"_

"_Nothing…Just wanted to be sure." She smiled, threw the note down, and approached him. She sat on his lap, curled her arms around his neck in the way she had used to when she was a little girl. "We never talk about our feelings anymore. I'm sorry, I wish, you know, things would be different…like before. I'm sorry that I acted all that crazily too… I know you wanted to protect me… I couldn't have a child, not by a drug dealer, but I really loved him, daddy."_

"_Laura…that's the past… Let's talk about it no more."_

_She smiled again. "Yes, yes, daddy. Do you know it's my twentieth birthday next week? How about a celebration, together—as father and daughter? You know what? I'll prepare a surprise for you. Something you will never forget."_

_x_

"_Laura!" he barked out, pressing in on her, "Don't talk nonsense! What do you mean you're going to keep the baby?"_

_She narrowed her eyes, and spit out, "I'm gonna keep my baby."_

"_Laura, you can't keep—"_

"_It was you, wasn't it?" she cut him off, "You—your people planted those things on him so he would get caught—" She shook her head. "Of course, it was you. Why dad, why…? He's my—"_

"_**Nothing,**__" he bellowed out, "He's your __**nothing**__."_

"_He's the father of my baby."_

"_He's a drug dealer, an addict, and in prison at the moment."_

"_Because you put him there," she yelled in his face._

"_Laura, lower your voice, you're not talking to your friends," he warned sternly, taking another step forward._

"_Yes, of course, I am not. I'm talking the mighty Homicide Chief Bullock, and all should bow and fear in front of his mightiness. That addict, father, has always been with me, always. When you didn't even want to bother with me, he was with me. He stayed at my bedside in the hospital for days, when you couldn't even bring yourself to visit me once."_

"_Laura, I explained—"_

"_I don't care—" She screamed. "I don't care for your explanation. I don't care for your excuses. You weren't there, you're never there, never, it's always __**them**__… Does one have to be dead, father, to get inside of your attention circle?"_

"_Laura, stop talking nonsense!" he yelled back. "You got yourself pregnant from a sleazy douchebag drug dealer, and now are acting like crazy... How can you be this irresponsible—"He pressed further. "How could you sleep with that man?"_

_He expected her to back down, and took a step backward but instead she took one forward. "I can do whatever I want, whomever I want… Who the fuck are you, thinking that you can get into my business?"_

_The slap landed on her cheek, "I'm your father."_

_She looked at him shock, her hand holding her cheek, the fingerprints of his hand reddening her skin. She then started to back away—away from him. "You'll pay for it, father. I'll get you back in such a way you will never forget it."_

* * *

One night away from his thirtieth, Boy sat on his armchair in the bunker, sipping a white wine, second grade, a few months old, and watched the re-runs of Harvey Dent's first Memorial Day. "It's a funny world we live in, isn't it, my friends?" he asked to the new arrivals. "We create our own heroes with our own hands than when they seem not be what we want them to be, we make them something else."

Bastard let out a mumble of curses about philosophic son of bitches, and Bubble Gum shrugged in his special carefree way and Boy took a good look at them for the last time. "Everything in place?"

"Yes, buddy," Bastard answered, "we're good to go."

"Good," Boy nodded with a little smile. "Then let's sit, dine, and celebrate. It's the only chance we could get to celebrate my birthday."

Bastard sent him a mocking grin. "What…you're growing softer, man?"

"Even Jesus had his last supper before going to his own death, Bastard," he asked. "Why not us too?"

Bubble Gum poured himself and Bastard drinks. "You should have seen me, bro," he said, sitting the sole couch. "That motherfucker buried me, bro, buried me. I thought I was going to die." He barked out a laugh. "I still didn't talk though."

Bastard shook his head affectionately muttering 'dolt', Bubble Gum shrugged, Boy smiled a little smile, and treasured the moment locking it up somewhere deep down, next to his childhood memories, lost forever now. Then the old clock on the wall chimed, once, the needles combined on the twelve. They all looked at it.

His birthday had come.

* * *

_A/N: Well, the glitch sorted itself out, sort of. It made me understood a thing, so all is dandy. Though, I thank you for your 'cooperation.' _

_At first, the end of this chapter was supposed to be with Bruce and Valerie, but then I decided that Boy deserves this honor, as he leads us to the finale chapters. _

_So the next one, finally Boy's time!_


	29. Chapter 26

_This is the end  
Beautiful friend  
This is the end  
My only friend, the end  
Of our elaborate plans, the end  
Of everything that stands, the end_

_The Doors, The End_

**Chapter Twenty-Six:**

* * *

Lucky Luke came to his appointment twenty minutes early, like he always did. Jenny opened the door, and let him in. She offered him coffee, and he accepted, like he always did; one sugar, no cream.

Jenny smiling gently, moderate and measured, went towards the kitchen. He wondered if she'd made up with her boyfriend. Probably. He went towards the bird's cage, one bird, her significant other still missing. When Jenny returned she saw him standing up on the couch, his hands on one of the waiting room pictures that had been rotting his mental health since the first time he had set foot inside.

"What are you doing up there?" the blonde woman asked suspiciously.

He turned over his shoulder to give him half a smile. "The picture was inclined a little bit. I was setting it right. You know, I also have symmetry issues."

Jenny smiled, now a little bit more non-measured, a little bit more roughish. She still hadn't made up with her boyfriend then. "Why are you always carrying that thing at the corner of your mouth unlit?"

Boy smiled roughish too. "That's gonna be my last cigarette. I'm saving it for a special occasion."

Jenny smiled further. "What kind of special occasion?"

"I'm hoping to find out today."

"Why do you dress like that in the summer heat?" she asked further.

He looked at his cowboy outfit, complete with his hat and cowboy boots, then back at her. "Because I'm a lonely cowboy far away from home."

Because the Professor entered the room at that time, Jenny couldn't question him further. Instead she jogged towards her, and took the briefcase out of the Professor's hands. The Professor smiled gently down at Lucky Luke. "Ah… at last… I was really wondering when I'd see you next. Come, let's go inside."

* * *

It took Bastard a few minutes to knock down the guards. Bubble rang the bell and an enchanting beauty opened the door. He popped out his gum, and asked the girl, "Hey, Sandra, your brother asked us to get you. Are you ready?"

The girl pursed her lips in a petulant way, "He says not to talk with strangers."

"But, dear, we're not strangers," Bubble Gum answered cheerfully, "We're friends of your brother. He waits for you at the amusement park."

Her eyes glinted, "He's going to take me to the amusement park?"

"Yep, he even said that we can buy candy on the way." He paused, and offered her one of his gum. "Want one?"

The little girl stuck in a body of thirty nodded merrily, throwing the gum in her beautifully shaped mouth. Bubble offered her a thin red buttoned sweater with the biggest smile. "Put this on, sweetie. The night will be windy."

* * *

The Professor had already taken the Parker in her fingers. She had a very disturbing habit of twirling it around her finger, or tapping its head on her table, and she also had a theory that to understand and analyze Luck Luke's behaviors better or at least to make _him_ understand himself better they had to go back to that traumatic day.

"Okay, let's go then," Lucky Luke said with a little sigh, "wherever we have to go."

She nodded. "I told you that I'm not looking at your comportment as pathological." She paused to look at him, the Parker twirling around her finger. "I mean if there wasn't any event after your supervisor's turtle?"

"There had to be a dog event but it's not very important."

"What dog event?"

"It's really trivial now."

The Professor leaned forward as her face hardened. "If you keep going like this, we can't keep up these interviews. It won't help. You don't come regularly—you're not being honest and open with me. I'm not here to judge you."

Lucky Luke saw her bluff. "Okay, let's not. Let this be the last."

"Don't be like that," she shook her head, "you can't drop out. You can't leave it unfinished."

Lucky Luke shrugged. "Let it remain short, what'd happen?"

The Professor looked at him, and he looked at the Professor. Then he sighed. "Okay, I'll tell. Then you relax, I relax."

x

It was his seventh birthday.

Their home was one of many on the grim block of flats built for workers from a nearby leather factory in a forgotten neighborhood that later was going to be called the Bowery; inhabited only by immigrants, squatters, and a few aging Gothamites.

It was a hot suffocating August night that made the natural scents of their neighborhood even worse than usual. Boy and his sister were sitting in front of the window. He was trying to study his books –he was a very hard working student who had learnt reading by his sixth birthday—but his sister wasn't letting him. She was clutched his arm, demanding that he did 'the most loyal friend.' His father had been absent for three months but on his last visit he'd brought a comic book called Lucky Luke. Both he and his sister had never seen Lucky Luke before, and his sister being only six years old and still not knowing how to read had been particularly excited with the gift.

But his father was coming tonight. Her mother had said with tears in her eyes that he would come for his seventh birthday. He couldn't have come last year, he'd had to be away, there had been a job, his mother had said, so he had had to leave. Boy had been so upset, and sad. Birthdays without his father weren't the same.

His father, according to Drunk Alan's toothy son Bran, was a mobster, and for that he was a fugitive. One night, he'd asked his mother what a mobster was and a fugitive but he couldn't get any satisfying answers.

His sister grabbed his arm again. "Do the most loyal friend, do it—"He used to do it for her a lot, put himself on all fours, and barked out, trying to bite his sister's legs. Then she laughed with big laughter, merry and happy, and he dropped her on the floor, and tickled her until she gasped for air. But today it wasn't coming to him, he didn't want to do it, he was preoccupied, what if his father wasn't coming?

But he did, a few hours later, he did, his arms full with chocolates and candies, and with another comic book, his father came, and happiness came with him again. They ate together, then ate the cake his mother had made, then his father looked at his books, looked at how good he was doing in school, then he caressed his hair, and told him, 'Daddy's smart boy, his smart boy, he isn't gonna be like his daddy.'

After the cake, his mother sent them away, and they went to the other room but before he fell asleep he heard his father saying to his mother… "I'm going to surrender. I didn't do anything bad… I talked to the boss, I said I did what I did for my family, I'm quitting now… he said… fuck you. I'm gonna surrender. The Mayor is offering allowances for those who surrender—"….then Boy drifted off to sleep.

He woke up with the sounds of gun shots and screaming. A second later his mother broke into their room, and picked up his sister by her armpits and hid her in the sole closet in the room. "Stay here, sweetie, and be silent, okay? We're playing hide and seek." Her sister nodded groggily.

His mother ran through the room once then grabbed his hand. She brought him to the basement, and he didn't want to go, he hated the basement, it was such a scary place and so dark, but at that moment he was more afraid of the gun shots than the basement. So he let his mother take him, and they flew around the gloomy room then his mother spotted the old washing machine in the corner. She picked him up and dropped him inside. "Stay here. Don't make any sounds, no matter what… Baby, don't make any sounds."

Then she was gone, and he was alone in the dark. When he heard gun shots and screaming from above, he understood inside the machine was a safer place. It was so dark though, and despite the summer warmth, it was cold, and inside the machine smelled so horrendously bad of detergent. It made him almost vomit but he stayed there, didn't make any sounds.

The gun shots were followed by bitter screams, groans of pain, and curses he couldn't understand, but he kept his silence, didn't make any sound, no matter what… he didn't talk, he didn't move an inch, he stayed there, waiting, alone in the dark.

It was Drunk Alan's toothy son Bran who found him on the brink of death, barely alive, when he came to explore two days later.

x

The Professor looked distraught, "So what happened exactly?"

"My mother thought another mob was attacking us, gang wars happen a lot, and father was considering surrendering. When she heard the gun shots, she hid us. But it wasn't a mob doing. It was the old Major Squad Center, one of their last operations. It was abolished a few months later. They had a tip, I guess, they thought they were invading a safe house."

"They killed your parents, and your sister?"

Lucky Luke shrugged. "They thought they were invading a mob safe house, not a lower ranked fugitive's home with his family. Possibly there was chaos, and they'd gone as collateral damage." He shrugged again. "I don't know what happened either."

She frowned, "How don't you know? Wasn't there an investigation?"

Lucky Luke smiled a little smile, gentle, and shook his head. "No. Instead of catching some bad guys, they killed one lower mobster, one innocent woman, and a six year old child. It's not like poster boy achievements."

Her frown grew harder. "There was no one to raise a fuss. There was only me left from our family, and I was only seven years old, and in the hospital. I was sent to a foster home after. They decided to cover it up." His gaze flicked outside, and he watched the city for a while. "You're a true Gothamite, Professor, aren't you? Born and bred?" the Professor nodded. "Then you probably already know. It wasn't like this at those times, Gotham was fighting but it was a losing battle. She was slowly falling into decay but they were still fighting. And the Major Squad Center's teams were its only hope. If something like this was to be heard, the city would fall."

The Professor looked chagrined, as she sputtered, "But it's…it's not—"

"Right, just, fair?" he asked. "Yes, of course, it wasn't. But how the saying goes with monsters and he who fights with monsters?_" _he asked, pausing to smile another little smile. "When you gaze long into an abyss the abyss also gazes into you."

"But what about the bodies? You? The witnesses?"

"Where I was born, everyone's business is his own business. And I wasn't around. I was at the hospital, unconscious. The bodies…well, who knows? In a single night, they all disappeared. I searched later though. They called it a _paperwork-disarray_. It was long ago, and no one cared enough about one orphan's mobster family. But I searched for them. Do you know the Homeless Cemetery at the end of the city's confines, as if no one wants it in the city's limits?"

The Professor nodded. "There is an old Ray there, a terrific fellow. Drinks well, smokes lot. He used to say, 'If you don't make graves six feet under, the dead would surface with the first rains and then they would be on your back in the afterlife.' His father used to tell him that."

"Who are these people?"

"People who buried my family, I believe. Ray remembered things vaguely, but his father was the one who had done the burial. He didn't know where the graves were. One day, in a moment of delirium, I went to open all the graves to find them. Old Ray found me, trying to open one. He brought me his cottage then, offered me wine and a cigar, and just said _'don't.'_ We didn't talk about my family, but we talked other stuff. Then I started to see him regularly. He's a fine chatter, and taught me another job too."

The Professor arched one eyebrow. "I open graves well, within quotes. Six feet under, seven inches by five inches, standard."

She momentarily remembered the detective whom she'd given the 'approval to active duty' report for the Commissioner's personal request. "Some look for graves," she remarked absently, "Some run away from them."

Lucky Luke looked at her. "If the person you lost has a grave, you can run away from it, you can have fears of seeing it. But if there is no grave, there is also no fear." He paused, his gaze flickered outside again. "And Professor, there is nothing more dreadful than not having fears."

The Professor looked distraught again, this wasn't going well, but then things had started to make sense. "So what happened then, did you manage to find something? What happened to the police?"

"When I started to make a fuss over it two years ago, an assistant DA had found me. She was one of those idealists, very passionate, a decent person. I believe even you might have heard of her. She got blown to smithereens last year," He sighed deeply. "'The good die young' Old Ray used to say, always. She helped me. We tried to open up some old folders, but every time we hit a wall. Then a man contacted me, he said he had a list in his hands, one of my father's old—friends."

"List?"

"Yes, you know how it is. The list of names that were involved in that raid. It was a war, it still is. Eye for an eye; one from us, one from you. They didn't know I was alive… I was found two days later. They got the list at that time, but when they decided to move a little bit more _legitimately,_ they decided to drop it. We said okay. Then things happened. Word came from the upper ladders, everything closed in on us. They turned to deny its existence." He laughed, hollow, and gazed outside again. "Then she got killed, and then no one cared enough. I dropped it too, afterward."

"The list?"

"I didn't talk with him again, it was pointless."

The Professor nodded, pieces starting to fall all in places, and hereby Lucky Luke ceased to be an interesting case. She felt a little disappointed. People who declared war against sense, logic, and reason without cause offered more efficient, fertile, and fruitful opportunities to analyze in the name of Psychology. The behaviors with reasons demoralized a little, the reasons were decipherable not just to a professor, but to everyone. Momentarily her gaze flicked over the dossier the Commissioner had sent her earlier. Clearly _that man_ was more than an interesting case. Pushing that thought to the back of her mind, she turned her attention back to her patient. "You've always looked for your family's graves," she declared. "That's why you make them search for graves."

The man returned his gaze toward her too. "You hid fish… The Major's cat… the Supervisor's turtle… It's understandable you dress like this, like a cowboy, you always wanted to tell her, the adventure of Lucky Luke and his loyal friend, to your little sister."

The man smiled a little smile. "You analyze everything very good, Professor. But have you ever felt to do more than this?"

She frowned, "Like what?"

"Have you ever thought someone needs to suffer? Someone needs to compensate? There is no justice in this world or anywhere else; it's just an illusion that everyone likes to talk about. And morality, ethics… impossible." He paused a little, and went on more like to himself. "It's not easy to reckon in the places there is no justice. Essentially it's even quite _impossible_. Hmm, maybe I have to think about it more… Perhaps it's even the bane of our existence."

The Professor's eyes brightened again as she felt the need to scratch with her Parker on her clipboard. "Okay, there is no justice, and morality is impossible. But revenge, vengeance is the answer? You can't break the circle of violence with more violence. You can't solve anything with revenge."

Then he stood up and looked at down at her. She frowned. "My dear Professor, what makes you think that I want to solve anything at all? My main objective is that you people understand something."

Her frown grew wider as something started to disturb her profoundly. "Understand what? And why do you talk plural? Are you seeing me too as _one of them?_"

He smiled a little smile. "That bird in the waiting room, she's alone since the last time I was here. You let her significant half escape when you were cleaning the cage and still haven't gotten another one." The little smile grew into a stone one, cutting and cruel. "Why, Professor, I'd have expected something at least a little more—creative from you."

The Professor looked at the man, and at the little cruel small on his lips then it dawned on her. She stood up too. "No."

He nodded. "I hid your bird," he said calmly, "It's somewhere in this bureau."

"You hid her?"

Another nod, "And you have to find her—"

"—find her?"

"Because she hasn't got much time left."

The Professor shrieked as Boy walked out of the room. He pressed the little remote control in his pocket and inside all of the study filled in with bird's chirpings. He walked toward to Jenny, fishing his phone. He called Bubble Gum. "Everything in place? Good… I'll be there within minutes."

He turned aside toward Jenny. "Jenny." The secretary looked like somewhere between amused and worried.

"What's happening?"

He ignored her question. "Jenny, if someone asks for me, I'll be in Robinson Park, waiting."

"Who's gonna ask for you?"

"For starters," he opened the door, "Professor."

* * *

Professor Harleen Frances Quinzel turned around her office after the maniac left, then ushered out of the room when she heard bird's chirpings. "Oh, NO!"

"Professor, what's happening?"

"He hid my Melon, Jenny," she said, her tone close a sobbing whine, "That son of a bitch hid my little birdie. Where is he?"

"He left seconds ago," Jenny said, confused. "He said if someone asks for him, he'll be in Robinson Park, waiting."

Jenny looked at her as she tried to found where the chirpings coming, she walked towards the couch then rested her head against the paint. She put her hand under it then felt something…not alive, not fluffy, something…metallic. She pulled it out, then looked at a loud speaker, and turned it off.

The chirpings gone, the office fell into silence. She turned around then looked at Jenny, her borrows furrowed. "What did you just say?"

"What?"

"He said what?"

"That he'll be in Robinson Park, waiting."

Harleen thought it about two second then jumped off the couch. She ran toward the coffee table to pick up one of the journals. "That psychopathic motherfucker!" she exclaimed, eyes scanning the pages fast. "Jenny, give me my phone… Girl, move that ass, quick!"

She tore the phone out of her secretary's fingers and called the Commissioner. "Commissioner Gordon, this is Professor Quinzel. I found your burial killer… yes, I know, and I also know it is bullshit and you covered it up again. He was coming to _see_ me, masquerading as a patient," she went on frustrated. "He was playing with all of us. A list, he mentioned a list, he has to have it, and there must be someone else."

She paused a little. "I know he makes calls. He's making a call. I'm _the_ call. He's buried someone in Robinson Park, third victim for his sister, and he's waiting you now in Robinson Park." She paused again, then exclaimed, "For God's sake, he _told_ my secretary!"

* * *

A few seconds later Gordon closed the phone, Lt. O'Connor barged into his office, tears running down his face. "Commish, he took my sister. He took my sister."

Gordon closed his eyes. "He's in Robinson Park. Were you the third one?"

"I didn't know, Commish. She came behind a door. I was a rookie, one of my first. The door had a glass panel, her shadow grew in the gloom, I didn't understand. We were told it was a safe house…" He fell down on his feet. "I saw a figure, and hit it… it was a girl, six years old…" He cried further. "She's just four years old, not thirty, she can't even stay in elevators…darkness… she has fear of darkness."

Gordon looked at the man. "Stand up. He took your sister to Robinson Park."

He called Bullock first, there was no answer. He called Burke. "Burke, where's Bullock?"

"Uh, we don't know, sir."

"Find him," Gordon ordered. "He buried the third victim in Robinson Park."

Burke paused only a second on the line then decided to skip the obvious questions regarding the suspect they were holding in County. "There is no third call, sir."

"He made his call a different way this time. Go to Robinson Park. He took Det. O'Connor's sister." He paused a little. "Find Lucius Fox too, the CEO of Wayne Enterprises. They have some subterranean scanner device. Go, now. And _please_, try to be discreet. I don't want to see any press around the park."

He closed the phone and looked at the man. "I wanted her out… the Mayor said he might not know, the list does only mention—"

Gordon fisted his hands in fury. "The Mayor knew about this? Knew about your sister?"

"Yes."

He swapped his hands through his desk, sending everything scattered around then kicked the table itself too. He stood in the middle of the damage and sent a simple message on a special line.

* * *

Bruce looked at the simple message, carved out in his vision.

_He buried the third victim in Robinson Park._

No explanations, no further details. Just that.

Still in his PJs, he exited the master bedroom, walked to the study. "Valerie," he barked out barging in.

She frowned. "Bruce, what're you doing up? Go to bed." She stood up. "You know what the doctor said. Go to your room, and rest."

"Was there a call?"

"What?" She scowled, "No, no…he does his thing in night, not in daylight."

"This is the final act, he's breaking his rules, find Fox—"His phone chirped. He read Fox's name on the screen. "Lucius, we need the sonar, now."

Fox faltered a second before he replied, "Yes, I've just got the call from GCPD. They said they need it in Robinson Park. I'm on my way now."

He closed the phone then walked out of the study. Alfred and Valerie shared a glance before she sprinted after him. She ran to him and then got in front of him. "Where do you think you're going?"

"Where do _you_ think?" He pushed her aside, and opened the door of main hall at the second floor. He went directly to the piano. Valerie leaned over it as Bruce pressed the keys and Alfred walked after them. "Bruce, be reasonable." She walked into lift after him. "You're wounded. It's daylight."

"I'm still going."

He exited to the cave. She followed then got in his way again, pacing backward in front of him. "The place will be full of police, Bruce—"She stopped then pleaded, "Please—what can you—what could Batman do now?"

He looked at her then shook his head. Over his shoulders Valerie looked at Alfred helplessly who was exiting out of the lift then her gaze found his again. "This is not a rescue."

"I have to try."

She stopped, put her hands on his chest, and shook her head. "No, you don't. I won't let you. You can't go."

"Valerie—"

"It's suicide," she whispered, voice faltering, eyes watering. "Don't tell me it's not."

Bruce grabbed each side of her neck, pulled her closer, and whispered back, "I _have to_ save her, Valerie." He looked straight at her eyes. "I have to stop him."

He pulled back, turned around, and resumed his walking, away from her.

She turned back on her heels. "You told me I'm not allowed to leave you behind," she said after his retreating back, her voice thick with raw emotions stuck deep in her throat. He stopped. "I'm staying, but you're leaving now."

He turned back, and _looked_ at her; his gaze, keen, unyielding, blazing, just like the day he had saved her. Then he closed in on her with quick steps, and grabbed her hand. "Then come with me."

For an answer, she linked her fingers through his, and squeezed his hand.

* * *

He stepped out of the Professor's office with a small smile and lifted his head up. The bright august sun warmed his face, and the little smile grew just a little bit wider as he started walking to Robinson Park. Today was a good day for a funeral.

Robinson Park, in the middle of the city, in the heart of the city's center…an evergreen oasis in the middle of a desert, and he sauntered toward it, slow, without haste, without ruining the beauty of the moment with the rashness of existence.

When he had been a little boy, there had been always hindrances, there had always been obstacles, and he had always been striving… always running but most of the time he had been defeated by them. When he had been a young man, there had still always been hindrances, there had still always been obstacles, and he had still been striving but when he defeated a few of them, for each he'd defeated another two had been always there in its place, but he was always striving… always running, always struggling, always searching.

But at the beginning of his thirtieth, today it all was ending.

He entered the park, walked toward the big memorial in the name of Harvey Dent in the middle of the evergreen, the monument's nose looking funny. He sat the monument's feet and lit the Luckies at the corner of his lips.

On his thirtieth, on his birthday, as of today, the striving ended, the running, struggling, searching; it all ended…

He watched the detectives walk into the park and spotting the monument, they slowly started to approach, steps wary and full of disbelief.

…and today he would just sit and whistle and whatever—whoever he sought was going to come running to him.

He smiled a little, and gave out a puff of his cigarette, and greeted the crowd, "Gentlemen, and I was just thinking of you."

* * *

_A/N: When I wrote this chapter, The End was always on, and I picture Boy walking to the park, Mr. Morrison softly singing 'this is the end, beautiful friend...' in the background. Needlessly to say, this is probably my favorite chapter of the whole story, and I'm also proud to say after finishing it, I lit a cigarette and gave out a very deep breath, feeling truly accomplished :) There is only a few things that could make feel like that._

_Personally, I find Valerie begging Bruce not leave her behind, not leave her without _him_ more moving than exchanging ILYs, which has never been my intention with them. I feel like this is the what Bruce Wayne needs/craves the most, as he's been always the one who is left behind._

_This is how I envision Harleen Quinzeel in my mind for Nolanverse too, someone who is demoralized when she 'understands' how her 'patients' 'operate'. 'That man' in the narrative refers surely to the Joker, of course. :)_

_'The good die young," has been always a shout-out to Rachel, as I liked her character very much, and I'm sad and frustrated the way she's disregarded by the fandom. I liked her idealism, and I liked her realistic approach to her situation with Bruce, and this is my way showing gratitude, I guess, as this is the full circle. Bruce and Harvey weren't the only ones who lost something when Rachel died, as a city like Gotham always needs idealists like Rachel._

_The next one is the closure of the Boy's story, then the aftermath, and finally the epilogue. Stay tuned!_


	30. Chapter 27

_A/N: So the conclusion of the Boy's story, I really can't believe I'm posting this. It's very surreal for me :)_

_Enjoy (my pseudo-philosophizing)_

**Chapter Twenty-Seven:**

* * *

"Bruce, remember," Valerie said for the fourth time after they'd left the manor, her body turned toward him, one hand propped on the dashboard for support as he drove toward Robinson Park at the top speed. "You're going as Bruce Wayne, not Batman, not another alias. _Bruce Wayne_."

His gaze skipped for a half of second towards her. "I know. It was my idea."

"You promised me."

"Valerie, give it a rest, I said okay."

She didn't look impressed with his bossy tone. "You'll stay at my side, won't go off to save the day alone—"

"Valerie—"

"And you won't go and do something to make your wound bleed either. We're just going to look it over."

Without diverting his eyes from the road, he grasped her hand, and squeezed it. "Valerie, stop fussing. I'm not going to get myself killed or arrested."

Huffing, she pulled her hand back, crossed her arms under chest, and leaned back against the seat. "If only you did, Bruce Wayne. I personally break you out then kick your pretty ass six ways from Sunday."

His gaze skipped toward her, as his hand touched her chin to turn her face toward him. "I promised. Stop worry—"

"I'm not worried." He gave her another quick look. She threw her hands in air. "Okay, I'm worried. Shoot me!"

_Their hands still linked, she walked fast to keep up with Bruce's hasty pace. She could follow him wherever he went, to whatever end, she could follow him, she knew she could—she _was going to_ but he wasn't going to prepare to go out…he was going toward the lift. "Bruce…" She slanted him a look as he pulled her inside the lift. "Why we are going up?" _

"_Because we're going out," he said simply, then fished his phone out of his pocket with his other hand, and made a call. "Fox, we're on our way. Meet us at the entrance of the park. I'll come by as to supervise the sonar."_

_She sighed out deeply, closing her eyes as Bruce closed the phone. He looked at her. "We're going together. I'm not leaving you behind."_

"_Promise me then—"She demanded, looking back in his eyes._

"_Never," he did without missing a beat._

_She shook her head. "Promise me then you will stay at my side, won't endanger yourself with your…your…your stupid heroism."_

"_I'm not a hero."_

"_I said promise!"_

"_I promise."_

* * *

They encountered Homicide detectives at the gates. Valerie suspiciously looked at them, her hand itching to wrap itself around his. They were standing next to each other, so close but she wanted to be still closer, in any case. He was not going to leave her, she knew, he'd promised, but she had to make sure of it. One of the detectives, the massive one she knew as Burke closed in on them, a scowl on his brows, and a walkie-talkie in his hand. "Are you Lucius Fox?" he asked curtly to Fox who they had met before.

Fox nodded. The detective waved his hand towards him, "Come with me." Fox arched an eyebrow, Bruce started to follow him, Valerie on his tail then the detective scowled down at him. "I'm sorry, what are you doing?"

Bruce looked around in feign confuse. "Excuse me?"

"Yeah, rich boy, you," he shook his head, "Get lost, find your kicks somewhere else, away from my sight."

"I'm—"

"Cut it off—"

"Burke—" They heard a female voice from behind. "We're ready."

"The hell we're ready," Burke cursed as the redhead detective came closer, strapping on her vest, "The Commissioner ordered that no one is doing anything until the shrink gets here."

She nodded then looked at them. "Who are these people?" Valerie arched her eyebrow, not believing the woman seriously didn't recognize Bruce Wayne. "I thought we're closing off the area."

Bruce coughed a little to get their attention but Burke beat him before he could continue, pointing his head to Fox. "The boss asked for him, he has some gadget to scan under earth. For the other two," he gave up a shrug, "I've no idea."

"As the owner of Wayne Enterprises, I came to see how our—gadget will work."

"So you drug your girlfriend too," Burke snapped back.

"His bodyguard," Valerie corrected, taking a step forward, "also his bodyguard. There is a killer here, and there is no way in the hell I'll let _Mr. Wayne_ inside without me."

"And I believe there should be no way in hell Mr. Wayne gets inside in the first place," Burke shot back, then another frustrated voice came from behind.

"You both, stop making a fuss, we're going inside. The Chief has arrived."

"Aiiii," Burke exclaimed, "fuck!" He turned to his older co-worker, Charlie Fields. "Where is he?"

"Right behind you," the female detective answered. Burke turned back. "Hey, chief," he said, then squinted, eyes measuring, "ya 'kay, chief?"

The Homicide Chief gave out a puff of his Marlboro, and snapped, "Don't talk nonsense."

Burke's lips pulled into a sheepish grin. "Yeah, sure chief." He closed in on his teammate, and whispered "Did you hear that, he talked again, said it wasn't just one time thing; he said 'don't talk nonsense,'" loud enough that Bruce could hear.

"Yeah," the detective Fields said, shaking his head, "what an accomplishment. Bravo."

"You're just angry because you didn't think of it before."

"Cut it out," Bullock interrupted, fixing his glare at Burke. "He's inside?"

"He told the secretary he would be here if anyone asked for him."

He nodded. "Okay, we're going in."

"Shrink?""

"On the way."

Pamela interrupted. "Nah, I saw her coming," she pointed to the blonde woman, jogging towards them.

"Excellent," Burke said then nodded his head towards them, "Mr. Fox here has some scanner thingy that the Commissioner asked for, and these other two, they are saying they've come to observe their property."

Bullock threw his hands in the air and with a pointed look at his subordinate, shook his head. Burke reddened a little at the base of his neck. "Yeah, yeah, okay, chief." He turned towards them. "What the hell," he muttered, "don't let me see you around me."

Valerie, seizing the opportunity, slid closer to Bruce, held his hand, and whispered into his ear, "Remember, no funny business."

He sent her a glower. "Valerie, enough!"

She pinched his hand, Bruce pinched back. She pinched back even harder, narrowing her eyes. Bruce pulled her closer, hissed out into her ear, "I said enough."

They walked behind Fox, Burke, and Bullock, and next to them asocial Isley who didn't recognize Bruce, and the shrink they mentioned, and behind them, taking their six, Fields.

They passed by a couple of picnickers, joggers and young people with their dogs, and then they saw him, a shadow in the park's square, just under Harvey Dent's feet. Bruce tensed beside her, and his hand tightened around hers unintentionally. The man was roguishly handsome, and even dressed in a completely ridiculous cowboy costume, he looked like trouble.

He took a drag from his cigarette and smiled slowly upon their approach, a little smile, gentle and kind, and terrifically sweet, and it froze the blood inside her veins. Then he let out a puff of smoke, and greeted them, "Gentlemen, and I was just thinking of you."

Around them, Valerie heard several sharp in takes of breath as Bruce got insanely tenser, his fingers crushing hers, Homicide drawing their guns at once. All of them had recognized the distinctive, emotionless voice in the recordings.

Valerie tried to squeeze Bruce's hand as their killer ignored the guns and started to talk once again. The crowd around them started to clear out, as several uniforms from the center station broke in to flush them out.

The killer looked as disinterested with the chaos as he was the guns pointed at his head. "So we met at last," he said, "I've been waiting for this encounter for quite a time." His gaze passed over the two detectives at the front and found the blonde professor's eyes. "I'm so glad you figured it out, Professor. I've been wondering."

Isley took Fox a few meters away from them, and settled him down under a small cluster of trees then planted three uniforms to watch over him. She walked away after to close off the perimeters. Fox began to take out the equipment he'd brought with him and turned on the computers.

Burke took a step forward. "Cut the bullshit, where is the girl?"

He shook his head then looked at the shrink again. "That's not how it happens. Professor, please, will you do the honors? You know it the best."

The blonde woman closed her eyes for a second. "You hid the girl?"

He nodded.

"And we have to find her,"

"And you have to find her—"He smiled, puffed out more smoke and announced, "because she hasn't got much time left."

Bruce's hand crushed Valerie's bones, but she held him even tighter as Burke ran towards the man, Chief Bullock didn't even try to stop him. "You son of a bitch…"

* * *

Burke was pulled off by three officers and Fields as Bullock watched the entire scene with a serene face, his cigarette clenched between his lips. Within the next three minutes Homicide had pulled the backhoes from an excavation site close by and then gathered around Fox's equipment leaving the man sitting under Dent's feet with four police officers and the blonde professor standing watch. Valerie wasn't sure if it was necessary, the man didn't seem to want to run nor he did seem eager to talk, or likely to feel guilt or mercy.

Burke pulled his vest in place, dusted off some dirt, and then pointed at the sonar. "How long does this thing need to start to work?"

"Just a couple of minutes more—"Fox replied without diverting his attention from what was he doing, "—then we'll be good."

"After that?"

"Depends on the area we need to cover," Fox answered again, eyes still fixed on his job. "Robinson Park thankfully is a plain savanna. But we're still talking about a few miles to check. But thankfully again we're looking for a somewhat rectangular prism—"

Burke cut him off curtly, scowling, hands still occupied with his vest. "We're not looking for a _somewhat_ rectangular prism…whatever the hell that's supposed to be. We're looking for a coffin."

Fox scowled back at him, "Technically a coffin is what _the hell_ a rectangular prism is supposed to be."

"It's probably the better if we leave the technicality for another time, Mr. Fox," Fields interrupted before Burke could reply, closing in on Fox, then turned to Bullock who was taking puffs of his cigarette repeatedly. Valerie thought he might start to eat the thing any minute. There was some energy radiating out of him, something close to what she always felt from Bruce…a tremendously built up energy, ready to go off in any minute, even though both men seemed collected. "We need to decide on a zero point then expand from there," the older detective went on.

"This guy has a thing for pools and sculptures, it's best to start from there. Chief, we need to divide people in four groups, and look around for shovel marks." The Chief nodded, then signaled to Burke, and two of them immediately started walking away. He turned back to Fox again. "Why did you build this thing again?"

Fox's gaze momentarily skipped towards Bruce before he answered, "Wayne Enterprises oversees the upkeep of the mechanical and engineering processes of the GCC lines, and our people keep digging around the city's infrastructure, messing with electricity and other things that come into a hub below Wayne Tower. We needed to be able to observe under the earth to cause minimal damage and prevent the loss of time and equipment. You wouldn't believe it but this city's underground is more cluttered than its above."

The older detective shook his head, giving a soft defeated sigh. "Try me." They fell into an ill silence as Fox worked on computers and Fields left them alone to meet with the rest of his team. A couple of minutes later Valerie saw the therapist approaching them. She nudged Bruce, who immediately scowled at the woman.

"Where is everyone?" The professor asked, sighing.

Bruce scowled further, Valerie shrugged, Fox didn't even bother to look up. "They went to prepare a search party. Did he talk?"

"Yes," the blond professor said curtly. "He does talk but just irreverently." Bruce sent her a hard glare as Valerie pinched his hand again. "Remember, _Bruce Wayne._ Stop drilling a hole through her forehead."

The professor let out another loaded sigh though, not noticing Bruce's glare which had been turned immediately on her after that little reminder. "He's been waiting for this for years. I think he really wants to…talk…"

"Then perhaps we should _talk_ to him," Bruce rasped out menacingly. The blonde woman's attention snapped back to him, Fox lifted his head to give him a look, and Valerie pinched his hand so hard she knew tomorrow he was going to have a bruise. Thank goodness, before the conversation turned into something more pestilent Bullock, Burke, and the redhead detective returned, and the Homicide Chief asked through another cigarette clenched between his lips, "Situation?"

"Not very promising," Fox answered crisply, turning back to his screen. "There are 594 objects underground and 137 of them seem to be a rectangular prism." He scowled. "This might take a while."

"We don't have _a while_," Burke exclaimed. "The girl could suffocate at any minute." With that every eye of their little group turned on him, but only Bruce's eyes drilling into him in his special way, then Bullock turned on his heel and walked towards the killer.

Bruce took a step to follow him; his body strained with so much energy Valerie could sense the hairs on her body standing up with his electricity. She slid closer, pressed on his side. "Bruce…easy…"

His jaw clenched as he looked at the man still sitting peacefully on Harvey Dent's feet then tried to free himself out of her clutch. She held tighter. "Bruce…no…no, you promised," she repeated with a whisper. "You promised."

He looked at her, with _that_ look, through her, behind her, and for a moment she thought she was transparent, her every muscle, her every flesh, her every single bone was transparent, and he could see all and beyond. For an unnamable time all other things around her faded away, muted, and she stopped, stopped even breathing, unable to move an inch, unable to tear her gaze away, and in the middle of end of the world she just looked back at him.

Then he nodded, squeezing her hand. She nodded back. His eyes skipped toward something, broke her out of her stupor, and she slid hers too, and saw Bullock aiming his gun toward the man. "Talk," the Homicide Chief said only.

"Ah, we are talking," the man replied sounding…amused.

Bullock tilted his head at Burke, who got his wordless command. The younger detective closed in on the man, pulled his gun, and swung at the base of his nose. Valerie drew in a short sharp breath. Burke swung again, "Chief, ask again."

"Where is the girl?"

The killer sent both of them a glare but didn't talk. The Professor ran towards them. "Aii, stop, stop," she stopped next to Burke, and halted the hand with gun that was coming again to meet the man. "Stop, you can't make him talk with—this…He won't talk with brutal force."

"We'll take our chances."

"Detectives, you can't interrogate—"

Her words cut off as Bullock pushed both of them aside to clear his way and approached the man. "Ok, then listen." He pointed his gun at the killer's head. "If the girl dies, you die. Don't think these people, these witnesses can save you. Don't think surrendering could save you, don't think… she will save you. The girl dies, you die. I'll do it myself."

"He will," Burke approved, coming closer to them. Valerie looked at them. "He has many times."

The man looked at them, blooding dripping from his broken nose and smiled a little smile. He leaned back, rested his head on the tree. "It's funny. You think I'd have fears of dying? Professor, please, tell them about your diagnosis. I know what you think. I'm _not_ pathologic."

"You're a…nihilist," she mumbled.

"And you know the most curious thing about nihilists?" he asked with a sweet note, and with a sweet smile, and Valerie felt like she was freezing. "They don't have anything to fear…no barriers to hold them back, no last security valves, nothing at all. It's a curse as much as it's a blessing, our bane…"

The redhead detective spoke in a low voice, shaking her head. "What you don't have you son of a bitch nihilist is a conscience, none at all. You put a little girl who can't even get in elevators inside a coffin and buried her alive. You're _not_ a nihilist or anything. You're a monster."

The man turned his gaze on her, and looked at her carefully. "It makes things easy to call me a monster, doesn't it? Let's call the heartless son of bitch a monster, let's pry him off the rest of humanity then our conscience can remain clean." Then his attention left her and he turned back to Burke. "But, now, I have another thing I wish to ask you. It seems the number of my fans has dwindled." His eyes traveled around momentarily before resting on them again. "Where is our concerned…third party?" He smiled gently again at their expressions as Valerie and Bruce shared a glance. "I thought he'd drop by too. He's showed such an interest in one of my friends."

"What are you talking about?" Burke asked curtly.

"I talk, of course, of Batman, who else?"

"What does he have to do with it?"

"Now, that's a man who knows about people too. He buried my friend alive then asked questions, and when he understood he wasn't going to talk, he dropped him on you. I thought he would come. I believe he even would—"He sighed out a little, "—understand. It's possible we're alike, how does it go? Different sides of the same coin?"

Bruce's gaze fastened on him as his grip on Valerie grew tighter. "Bruce…" she whispered again but his attention didn't even waver. "It's a funny world we live in," the man said, his gaze skipping up Harvey Dent's metallic features. "History only repeats itself. I wanted to see how it would be. I was willing to… I was hoping…even though I knew how it was going to be. The bitter irony of it; we built our heroes ourselves and when they don't seem to be what we wish them to be, we want them to be something else. In earlier days people would call him," he tilted his head towards Harvey Dent, "a monster and here you call him a hero."

"He was a decent man with monstrous face blown up by another nihilistic like you," Burke snapped back.

"And then you go and make statues of him and in my experience every man that ever had a statue made of him was one kind of son of a bitch or another."

"The girl, the girl has nothing to do with it," Bullock said. "Tell us where she is."

"Yes, that's nothing to do with her. It's most unfortunate that she had to be involved."

"Then tell us where she is," The Professor pleaded.

"You know very well I can't do that, Professor."

"That's enough," Bullock bellowed. "I've listened your droning enough. You want revenge, fine, don't care. You'll talk to me, or you'll talk to me!"

"I _am_ talking to you, but you're not listening. There is something you need to understand." He turned his attention to the Professor again. "Professor Quinzel, you had a question that I couldn't reply properly before. Please, ask it again."

She closed her eyes, sighing and shaking her head. "What's your objective? What is it that we need to understand?"

"I'm no monster. There _are_ no monsters hiding under your bed, there are no bogeymen inside your closet. In its essence I'm humanity itself, in its simplest, cleanest, starkest form. I am what humanity it is, no less, no more." He smiled again, gently, little, giving up another puff of his smoke. "There are no bad wolves in sheepskin, gentlemen and ladies, just homicidal sheep in wolf skin."

Bruce crushed the bones in her hand once again and Valerie suddenly felt that she'd had enough. She turned on her heels and tugged at Bruce. He halted, trying to stop her but she pulled stronger. "I've had enough with this nihilistic bullshit. There is nothing even slightly _useful_ there." She threw her heels off, and started running barefoot toward the searching parties, "Come on, Bruce, let's go save the poor girl."

She stopped in front of Fields, who was wisely never interested in the killer but instead stayed at Fox's side the whole time. He was crouched over the earth, his palms trying to find the burial marks. She looked at him, her expression set in seriousness. "We want to help."

The older detective lifted his head slightly to give them a look before turning his attention back to where it belonged. "Do what?"

"Help," she repeated acutely. "We can help you people."

Before he could respond Burke appeared next to them. "Hate philosophic stuff, hate philosophic bastards. All the talk, talk, talk, and admire my wit bullshit… Days ago a cab driver got killed for twenty bucks and I swear even _that_ makes more sense than this." He put a cigarette on the corner of his lips and offered his co-worker another.

"Didn't you give up smoking?"

"Today the world is turning upside down, why not start again?" Burke offered the packet. "Wanna one?"

"Don't ask me that," Fields snapped back. "You know I quit."

"So did I," he muttered then turned on to them, like he just noticed, "And what the hell you two doing here?" he asked, scowling at her bare feet.

She held his glare defiantly, "We want to help."

The detective looked them for a while then shrugged. "Then bend down and start getting your hands dirty." He gave them another look and shook his head. "And for God's sake, stop holding hands."

* * *

Next to Valerie, keeling down, Bruce skimmed his palms on the earth, over the marks. "Not new, seemed like three days ago, at least," he said.

"Pamela was thinking they opened the graves earlier," Burke said, scowling down at the marks.

Bruce shook his head, "No, even if that's the case there must be other marks to fill the grave in after they buried her."

"And what you could possibly know about shovel marks, rich boy?"

Bruce didn't turn his attention away from the marks, "Used to take Boy Scout camps for every summer," he commented absentmindedly. Something, something was not right. He could feel it, nudging from at the brink of his unconsciousness, calling for his attention. His brows pulled into a frown.

"Terrific," Burke grumbled, "Charlie?"

"He's right," the older detective responded, as he turned to him. "Let's go over the fourth spot. Your CEO has twenty other places for us to check over."

"I say we take Batman's route, bury him, and see what he will say then."

Bruce snapped his head back to Burke as he felt Valerie sliding closer to him, ready to hold onto him in case that he snapped off and started to flee away from her vicinity. His hands arched through the earth, wishing to take her hand inside his, even now, even in the middle of this…this madness to reassure her that he was not going to leave her behind. _Never._

"Stop talking nonsense, Burke," Fields shook his head. "Beside he probably wouldn't talk. That professor chick says he's accustomed to violence. He's being doing this since his childhood, and he's never talked, not once."

Then something clinked on Bruce_._

_I'm talking to you, but you're not listening. _

He turned back, and looked at the man, sitting on the feet on Harvey Dent.

_There is something you need to understand. There are no monsters…_

_He would understand…different sides of the same coin._

Suddenly he rose on his feet, and started to sprint towards him. Valerie leaped to her feet too, he saw with the corner of his eye, as the other detectives looked at them funnily.

"Bruce," Valerie yelled after him, "Bruce!"

Momentarily, he halted, and turned back as she ran to him. He grabbed her hand, "Come Val, I know where she is."

"Oh!" she said then.

"Yes."

He walked purposely towards Dent's stature dropping her hand. The three police officers surrounding the man watched him skeptically, eyes suspicious. Bruce leaped and grasped the killer by his neck and threw him aside. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw the other detectives started to running towards them, Bullock in tow.

"You really were talking, weren't you," he mumbled, eyes picking up the shovel marks he'd been hiding. "And we only needed to listen."

"Ah, I guess you're the smart one." The man paused, titled his head to side. "I must admit, this is something—something I didn't see happening. It's not a regular occurrence for me and normally I find people not behaving according to their natures very disturbing, but for now I'm delightfully _surprised_." He paused again. "But perhaps it's the case that you're acting according to your nature after all, Mr. Wayne."

He gave the man a hard look. "Go on then, let's see if you will be able to save her."

"Get a backhoe here," Bruce ordered to the new arrivals, ignoring the killer's remarks, ignoring their meanings. "He was sitting on her, all the time."

"What?" Burke exclaimed.

"He was talking to us, we only needed to listen."

"For god's sake," Burke exclaimed, as Bullock asked, "Charlie?"

"He's right, get a backhoe here, ASAP."

Bullock signaled to Burke, who started to run towards one of backhoes. "Pray the girl is still alive, bastard," Bullock said again before turning to the other three uniforms. "Take him away, to the van. I'll be coming soon."

* * *

Valerie watched the backhoe's operator from afar as he operated the machine based on Fields' directives, "No, don't go deeper, from the surface—" and Bruce was watching them just a few inches away, his expression carved out of stone. She wished to be closer to him, but he'd sent her away, in the middle of the fucking business still trying to protect her from her stupid dreams. "You dumbass, I said from surface, are you deaf?" Fields shouted.

The operator opened his mouth, "For goodness sake, don't answer, it was a rhetorical question. Get down," he waved his hands in the air, up and down, "Get the fuck down, I'll do it myself."

Now, that was a man who didn't mind getting his hands dirty, Valerie concluded, as her foot poked into dirt. Where the hell were her shoes anyway? She sighed, poking her thumb further into the earth. Then she heard exclamations, and shouting, and snapped back her head towards the noises, and saw one of the uniforms waving his arms around. "I saw it, detective, saw it…there is something down there."

Valerie sprinted, not caring about what Bruce would say. She slid toward him through the police officers and then rose on her toes behind him, her chin hovering above his shoulder, her hand clutching his upper arm for support. "What's happening? I can't see anything."

His gaze momentarily skipped back over his shoulder, "They found it."

"Oh!" She gasped and moved forward, "Good, let's get a look."

"No, you stay here." Bruce stopped her, grabbing her at the waist, and pulled her back. "You stay here."

She turned around, his hands still on her waist, "But we—"

"Valerie, please. I don't want you to see this. Please, stay."

She looked at him then found herself nodding, "kay."

Bruce nodded, then walked towards to the crowd, namely ten people, three Homicide Detective, Burke, Bullocks, and Fields, five uniforms, and two medics who had arrived shortly before and now one billionaire.

She couldn't see it from her vantage point, but she was sure the thing that they all leaned over was a crude handmade coffin. The medics started screaming, throwing all of them away, then one of them brought a stretcher. They loaded her on it, and then she closed in on, her feet moving on their own will, she looked at the beautiful face of the grown-up body of a four year old little girl. A long, red sweater was covering her body, her face turned blue, her eyes closed. She must have closed her eyes, she found herself thinking. "I have faint pulse," one of the medics yelled then stopped, "I'm losing it, prepare the EMD ASAP."

Two other medics came rushing to their side, the EMD machine in their hands, one cut her red sweater in half with scissors, and Valerie saw the girl was wearing a cute pink bra, with little flowers on it, and found that she wanted to cry. Her misted eyes looked for Bruce.

They stuck the electrodes on her heart, then the charge went off, she arched upwards, her body wavering, and Bruce looked at her lifeless body, without moving, his face and body turned to stone much like the sculpture of Harvey Dent just a few inches away.

Her eyes fluttered closed…and she found herself imploring for the first time in a long time…

_Please…live…live…please live…please!_

…Then with the corner of her eye she saw the Homicide Chief sprinting toward the van, his gun in his hand, his fingers pulling the safety.

* * *

The coffin was a crude job same as the others, second grade wood, and the girl was lying in it, and if it wasn't for her sickly blue face, one could have assumed that she was sleeping peacefully.

His hands went to his side as her face switched to another young face, wearing the red dress, waiting for him… _You'll pay for it. I will get you back in such a way that you will never forget it._

With her red long sweater, it was _Her_. He looked at her, the world turning, his ears drumming, his grasp on reality slipping.

"I have a faint pulse," the medic yelled and stopped, then shouted again. "I'm losing it, losing it. Prepare the EMD. Set the charge for 100 MG."

With her red dress, it was _Her_… _"I can do whatever I want, whomever I want… Who the fuck are you thinking that you can get into my business?"_

"_I'm your father."_

"_You'll pay for it. I'll get you back in such a way that you will never forget it."_

"I'm losing it—"The medic shouted again. He pulled the gun out and started to run towards the man… He pulled the safety on his way…

"_Would you feel bad if something happens to me?"_

"_Do you know it's my 20__th__ birthday next week? How about a celebration, together, father and daughter? You know what? I'll prepare a surprise for you. Something you will never forget about."_

He raised the gun…

_He lifted his head up from below and she bowed hers down from above, her feet wiggled at the edge of the rooftop, he stared at her, she stared back, "LAURAAAA! NO!-"_

_She smiled then, opened her arms, and let herself go…_

"_LAURAAAAAAAA!"_

"PAM!…" Burke shouted somewhere behind him, "PAM…DAMMIT, PAMELA! STOP HIM."

His gaze momentarily skipped toward the redheaded girl, who was stuck on her feet, her eyes widened, but she didn't run toward him.

He saw the man crouching in front of the van, his guards looking at him, he aimed the gun…

…Their gaze found each other's for a second then the man smiled a little smile… with…something close to relief…?

Then Bullock pulled the trigger.

* * *

The girl was so beautiful, so young, and so… _dead_.

Pam, the college drop-out, the newly made Homicide detective could hear Burke's shouts from somewhere behind her, she could see the Chief approaching the man, the gun in his hand, and she knew with every fiber of her being that he was going to pull the trigger. Yet she didn't move an inch, her feet planted where they stood, rooted, as she stared at him.

She knew she should try, at least she should try to move, do something…_try_ something, or else…or else…she didn't know the after of those elses anymore, she didn't know but something, some distant voice deep inside, barely whispered almost wordlessly urged to find out.

Then she realized she wasn't moving because she wanted to see that _else_, she wanted to see what would happen afterward, that she wasn't moving because she wanted to see him lying on the earth, in pain, in so much pain, bleeding, the life fading away from him slowly.

She wasn't moving because she wanted to see him dying.

When the man fell on the grass, his face covered in blood, painting the green with red, a small smile appeared on her lips.

Then she understood, there were indeed no monsters, there was all humanity, there was only them, and the only thing humanity deserved was death.

* * *

_A/N: Here it is...closing with Pamela because it seemed to me fitting as she also completed her journey to become the villian we all know(and love, personally I do very much) from the comics. And in the finale, there is no Batman, because this is essentially a Bruce Wayne story, as I said in the first chapter, even though Valerie mostly dominates the narrative (unfortunately-this is another confession from me) and I wanted Bruce to be the one who saved the 'victim' at the end (sort of), not Batman, much like the beginning how Bruce saved 'Cameron' Reese, as it was the most important reason for me to turn Coleman Reese into the character I'd been planning. I wanted both savings be done by Bruce Wayne, not Batman._

_Now, I'll have to admit you can't diagnose a person as a nihilist, but, Boy sort of commits suicide, so it seems to me pausible enough, he's not 'pathologic.' I'm no way an expert in these matters, so I'll leave it to you to decide._

_"There are no bad wolves in sheepskin, gentlemen and ladies, just homicidal sheep in wolf skin," was something I read long ago somewhere, can't remember which book, and that quote with heroes and statues was said in Firefly._

_The next aftermath, in which, Bruce gallops in despair like a true tragic hero :)_


	31. Chapter 28-Aftermath Part I

_A/N: Change of plans. I'm going to post the aftermath in two parts, because I haven't still done anything with the last tie-ins and well, I really need to get this thing done now. I know I'm updating like mad, but I'm sure you aren't complaining._

_x_

_I should at least mention that I am also discovering a degree of strength and of basic ability for humans to remain human in the direst of circumstances – which I also haven't seen before. I think the word is dignity._

_Rachel Corrie _

**Aftermath Part-One:**

* * *

Valerie wriggled her toes inside the hospital slippers and shifted on the very uncomfortable row of chairs in the waiting room of the St. Luca Hospital. She pulled her legs up under her and rested her head on Bruce's shoulder.

"Tired?"

"A little bit," she sighed out, "Funny, isn't it? Just a couple of hours ago, I felt like I could change the world and now even standing up seems like such a chore. Aftermaths are just so messy."

"You should go back. I can call Alfred if you want, or you could take a cab back to the manor."

"No," she said immediately, "I'm gonna stay. I'm not going anywhere."

Bruce let out a sigh and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. "Okay, then close your eyes, and rest."

Then she did.

x

Valerie watched the old detective rush into the emergency room with a worried look. He was crying, gasping for air, with the Commissioner on his tail. Bruce stiffened next to her but held his demeanor. Detective Christopher looked at him with wide eyes and grasped his hand. "Thank you, thank you, sir. They told me you found her. I don't know how to thank you—"

"Don't kill anyone's little sister again," he rasped out curtly, taking his hand back. Valerie closed her eyes, sighing. The detective winced, sputtered, "It was a mistake… I—"Then the commissioner interrupted him.

"Christopher," he said in the definite tone of an absolute order, "Find a doctor and ask about the situation."

He nodded, and started to walk away. The Commissioner looked after him then turned to Bruce. "Mr. Wayne, I heard what happened today in Robinson Park," he said wearily, passing a hand through his ruffled hair. "I must say you've got a heroic streak in you. That's our second meeting under such conditions, isn't it?"

Valerie stiffened and Bruce slanted his gaze to her as he muttered, "I was just trying to catch the green." She scowled but before Bruce could say anything else Mayor Garcia walked in. The Commissioner's expression turned to pure hatred, which was mirrored by Bruce's.

"Mr. Wayne, good evening, I see that you've already started to talk with the Commissioner," Garcia began, "We're very glad of your help and for your personal interest, though you must understand today's happenings are very delicate matters. We will make things right again, we will correct the whole thing step by step. First I'll get that poor chap out of County, then we will clear up the other issues but not right now, I'm afraid. The—"

"If you don't make it public by tomorrow evening, I'll come forward and explain everything," Bruce cut him off. "Tomorrow evening, that's all I can _give_ you."

"Mr. Wayne—"

"We will make things right again, Mr. Wayne, even before that," the Commissioner interrupted. "This madness ends now."

"It'd better."

* * *

"But Commish—"

"There is no buts, Burke," Gordon answered in a deserted corridor at the hospital, "I already talked with the Chi—with Bullock. He accepts all the conditions."

"But he will—"

"Yes, he will accept all accusations then go to trial. He will probably serve a few years, three or four. Possibly most of the jury will think he wasn't in the right mind and was provoked by him."

"But he was, Commish," Burke shot back heatedly.

"If his hands weren't shaking constantly because of alcohol withdrawal he would have shot him in the head, not just at the neck. The man is comatose and he will probably never wake up again. We made a mistake because he is our friend. But the truth is that we should have never let him be in Homicide after—he should have resigned after Laura."

That made Burke's penned up anger burst open. "But Commissioner, sir, will you give up on him because of that motherfucker? He wanted it, he wanted it. I saw it in his eyes before the Chief shot him, he never expected to come out of this alive. He never wanted it. He called us, Homicide directly, for chief, because he knew. Because he knew, there was a red sweater over the girl even in the summer heat. He played with us all."

"He shot a surrendered convict in head, Burke." Gordon answered back, raising his voice. "That's the bottom line, that's the reality. Didn't you learn anything from this, son? Anything at all? Didn't you see where bad decisions with good intentions led us? The history will not repeat itself again this time, Tommy. Everyone will come forward and will face the consequences. Everyone one, including me. I let an innocent man be charged with murder for this shit, an innocent girl would have died because of our cowardice. This ends now."

* * *

"He will probably lose the Commissioner title because of this," Valerie softly commented from where still she sat the uncomfortable chair next to Bruce, her head on his shoulder.

"Yes."

"He will be the scapegoat for everything."

"Yes."

"Aren't you—worried? I thought he's your…friend."

"Batman doesn't have the luxury of having friends."

Her head snapped up at him, and she looked at him with a hurt expression. "What I am then?"

"You're _my_ friend." He pulled a fallen lock of hair behind her neck, fingertips gently brushing it, "Bruce Wayne's."

She rested her head back on his shoulder, shaking it. "You're full of bullshit, Bruce." She sniffed. "Hmphf, we should just throw all the blame on the Mayor and be done with it. This is all his fault anyway."

"He is probably going to be the one who is going to come out without any scars."

"Not that you have anything to do with it."

His expression hardened, "Not that I have anything to do with it."

"Just how I thought," she confirmed back, and sighed out. "The girl is okay, the killer probably won't open his eyes ever again and we should now return back to the manor, I guess." Bruce remained silent. "If we prolong our stay, people will start to wonder why. What the hell is Bruce Wayne doing with these people anyway? For the first couple of hours I'm sure they felt that it's just one of the eccentricities of the filthy rich but enough is enough."

"Yes," he said.

"Yes?" She lifted her head up, "That's it? Just yes?"

"Well, yes. I agree with you. We should go."

She narrowed her eyes. "Okay, then, _will_ we go?"

"No."

She let out a groan and rested her head once again on his shoulder. "Bruce Wayne, you're really full of bullshit."

x

The corridor was deserted now, everyone scattered around, and his head was bowed, the eerie pale light of the fluorescents cast his shadow on the wall, faint, unworldly. She felt again that helplessness wash over her body as she knelt down between his legs and put a hand on his knee. "Bruce—"He lifted his head to look at her, "Bruce, we have to go now."

He turned his head to the side. "I know."

"And we can't come back again-"

"I know," he muttered again.

"We can't see her again, we can't even send flowers."

"I know."

"Bruce Wayne needs to leave the stage now."

"I know."

She touched his cheek and turned his face to her. "But you saved her, Bruce, you saved her."

"Did I?" he asked with a small voice. "She's never going to be same, Valerie. She will always have fears, it will ruin her life. I should have done more."

"You gave her a chance," she responded, shaking her head, "A chance for a life, better or worse. Without you, she couldn't have had even that. She's the lucky one."

"She _is_ the innocent one, it's _not_ fair."

"Yes, she is," she sighed out. "Yet bad things happen to people all the time, it is life, it is _not_ fair, it doesn't care…it just happens…" She paused, "Bruce, we really should go now."

He ignored the last part, gave her a look. "You say that a lot but I know you don't feel that way, not all the time. Your father told you that too, Valerie? When he found you in rehab?"

She shrugged. "You know what the most annoying thing about Jason was? I mean, really annoying? He used to almost always be _right_."

"Valerie—"

"Yes, Bruce."

"I was the one who found the girl. I was the one who could understand him. What does that say about me?"

She drew a breath in silently, "That you were the smartest of all of us."

He stood up, she stood up too, and he turned back. "Let's go home."

She just nodded.

* * *

He was absent for whole day and she gave him that breath of personal space, left him alone, and stayed with Alfred who was way better at dealing with this than her.

She sighed, shaking her head, playing with a piece of fried cheese on her plate. "Does he always _have to_ be this dramatic?"

Alfred gave her an arch of his eyebrow where he sat opposite of her at the table. She sighed again. "I know… I know…kettle calling pot, right?" He smiled faintly but gently, and she thought for a second…she didn't know—nicely? She wasn't accustomed to receive these kinds of smiles from the older man. She threw the cheese down then and asked absentmindedly, "Do you think he will try to go out tonight?"

"Probably," Alfred mused.

"He has to stay in," she answered, voice hardened, pushing the plate away. "He's being all dark, brooding and gloomy, and his wound is still too fresh. Who knows what kind of trouble he would get himself into if he goes out now?"

Alfred nodded, face sour with worry, and she reached out to pat his hand across the table. "Don't worry, I'll keep him inside, even if I need to knock him out. He stays in tonight."

Alfred nodded again then she found herself asking, words spilling out of her mouth on their own will. "Was it like that too after her…after Rachel?"

Alfred gave her a measuring look, long and ancient, full of sorrow, and she felt her insides tremble. He turned his gaze away then, looking at Gotham's looming nightscape. "Worse, it was a _lot_ worse, Ms. Valerie."

She felt herself tremble again, stood up and left the room search for him.

She found him in the study, standing in front of the tall window, hands shoved deep inside his pockets, watching the darkness outside broodingly, showing off every single trait of a true tragic Shakespearean character, excessively. She walked closer, turning her back from the spectacular Gotham view –alluring, tempting and deceptive, and rested it against the window in front of him.

No flippant comments came to her mind, no rolling eyes, no exaggerated puffing. She knew she should, she needed to say something, to make things lighter—impersonal, get her safety distance back, yet, the only word she could come up with was a soft 'hey'.

He didn't answer.

She touched his upper arm, lightly, fingers barely touching his skin and tried again. "You okay?"

He still didn't answer nor averted his gaze, fixed on the darkness ahead. She sighed softly this time. "Bruce—"

"He said we're alike," he finally said, "different sides of the same coin."

"You're not like him."

"The Joker said I'm like him too."

"Bruce—"

"The man, Ducard—the man who saved me, the man gave me a purpose, a reason to fight—to survive. And I left him to die in the train crash." His gaze momentarily skipped towards her before turning back. "I could have saved him but I chose not to."

She nodded, letting her hand drop. So that was what really had happened at that train crash. The reasons, the justifications came to her throat but words couldn't get out. She knew they wouldn't matter, all justifications—all becauses, all whys, all buts wouldn't matter, it didn't matter how the young man was once just, had rightful reasons, how the man had tried to kill him or tried to eradicate an entire city. Just as it didn't matter that they were trying to sell her like a property. It didn't matter because in the end, all justifications were just pretexts, wishful excuses to ease your conscience, your…guilt.

But there were other things too, other truths, other values, the things that made right and wrong set apart, the things that set you apart. "That man's end was his own doing. You didn't kill the Joker—you didn't let him die despite what he did." And she wasn't just talking about putting a whole city into a fit of madness.

"And here I am wondering how many people will get killed because of that choice."

She shook her head. "Bruce, don't second guess your choices. You made a decision, and you know it's the right one, not the easiest. You didn't kill the Joker. You didn't kill that man either. That's what makes you different than them."

"I was going to kill him, Joe Chill, my finger was on the trigger."

"But you didn't."

"Only because someone acted before me."

She grasped his arm again, tighter, fingers arching into his skin, voice cracking, "But it didn't happen. That's the bottom line. Whatever the reasons are, you didn't get to pull the trigger. Bruce, please," she pleaded, "don't let the past ruin what you are now."

He finally turned his head and looked at her before he softly appealed, voice like a whisper coming from distant past, "What I am now?"

Then something stabbed her in the heart, twisted the blade further and she trembled with a ghost pain. Seeing him like this hurt, so very deeply, so much even the hurt of Jason's betrayal faded beside it, even the flocks cracking against her skin faded next to it, even the current running through her body faded against it. "A human…" He turned his head away but she held his cheek, turned it back and forced him to look at her. "Listen to me, because I'll say this for the last time. You're not like them."

"You wanted revenge, and wanted to feel the justice served, and it's understandable. He killed your parents and you thought it could be enough to justify any atrocity. It's okay… to want revenge; it's _human_. But you know exactly how destructive a justified revenge could be, it eats people inside out, turns you to a hollow shell of what you have been. But you stopped, Bruce, you managed to stop but those men, those men hadn't, wouldn't, couldn't." She paused for a breath to clear her voice. "I know you were going to kill him, Bruce, I truly believe it, but ask yourself: If any given the chance, would you kill his parents to avenge your own? If given the chance, would you kill the Joker's love-of- his-life—assuming there is one— to revenge on your own?"

She dropped her hand. "You wouldn't, that's what I _don't_ believe and that's what sets you apart. You've managed to preserve your humanity, they have not. He thought he was the essence of humanity, well, he was _wrong_. I know it because I know you. There is more to humanity than this. You've proven this to me every single day since we met."

"So, _please_, stop dwelling in the past, stop trying to remake the past. Stop examining yourself, your choices, your life, all the time, just look ahead." She gave out a deep breath. "A very smart man once said 'a life unexamined might not be worth living," she shook her hands in front of her, "but a life dissected tends to be just a bloody mess."

He looked at her, pulling one lock of hair behind her ear and touched her cheek. "Thank you," he whispered and smiled, faintly but genuinely and she saw the light. She smiled back then wondered if she made a move then would he reject her again? He hadn't left her behind, had said 'come with me.' She just wanted to kiss him, feel him, to ease his pain…be there for him…seeing him like this hurt…so very much, so deeply. Then she scowled.

She was trying to be a friend, a genuine one and it didn't seem _right_ to try and lure him into bed now, when he was down, when he was defenseless, when his armor was lowered, and the more she thought about it, the more it seemed like an act of manipulation. If she had _tried_ to manipulate him into bed, those words would have been her first preference, nothing worked better than the truth when dealing with smart people… so was she trying to manipulate him after all? No, she wasn't…no, she wasn't… was she?

Then she noticed Bruce smiled further… in amusement, like he was actually waiting for something, his fingertips caressing her skin gently. She frowned. She might have stayed more than whole minute staring at him stupidly. _Friends, go with friends_, she told herself, although she couldn't fathom at the moment why she was proposing such a ridiculously absurd idea to herself.

"Mary Poppins," she blurted out.

Bruce blinked once, then again and asked roughly. "Wh—what?"

"You said you would show it to me."

"Uh…"

"That's exactly what we should do." She nodded to herself. Clear the tense, gloomy air, filled with grief, old wounds, expectation and other things, _and_ make him stay in house in the meantime. Yes, that was the most reasonable thing to do. She would deal with… the rest later… "It—it's like we're really living in a Shakespearean play. We need to get ourselves out of this…this… drama and try to do something normal." She lifted a shoulder, "I mean, nothing extraordinary, of course, or else I would suggest clubbing, dancing till first light of the morning, having fun, but that sounds inappropriate—" she curled her lips down, "even for me. So movie time it is." She grabbed his hand, pulled him away from the window. "Come on, I'll make us popcorn too."

"Really?"

She paused a little on her step, "No," then resumed her tugging at him. "But I'll have Alfred do it."

"No." He shook his head. "He must have gone to bed, don't wake him up for _popcorn_."

"But movie nights are typified with popcorn," she whined in a slightly petulant tone, "We can't have a proper one without it."

"Ok, fine, I'll do it."

She looked skeptically at him. "Do you know how?"

"I defy the rules of physics every night," Bruce answered with dignity as he turned her toward the kitchen level. "I think I can manage a microwave."

"Oh, you never know. Once I managed to cause a fire trying to warm a bottle of milk." She laughed at Bruce's horrified expression. "Now, don't look like that, the fire brigade of Wales are such a delight to look at it, it's no less than a miracle that houses don't get burned to the ground on regular basis."

Bruce turned a curious eye to her, she shrugged. "Well, I can't be good at everything, _although_ admittedly I'm exceptionally good at most anything."

"Yeah, yeah, you're practically perfect," Bruce snickered upon entering into kitchen. "But we have another problem too, I don't have Marry Poppins."

She threw her hands in the air with perfect pose of exaggeration, "Bruce, how exactly were you planning to show it to me without even having the DVD?"

"I was going to …" he paused for a second, looking for popcorn bags in the many drawers of the massive kitchen, "-attain it."

"Men," she shook her head. "Lucky for us, I never leave a woman's job," she gave him a smirk, "such as shopping to a man. I already bought it."

Bruce shook his head, smiling. "You really did, didn't you?"

"Darling," she drawled, leaning her elbow on the counter as Bruce put a bag of popcorn he'd found inside the microwave. "Didn't you already get it, I'm _always_ prepared."

* * *

Even though, it completely eluded him at the moment, there must have been a perfectly good reason for what the hell he was doing, standing in the middle of the enormous kitchen, preparing popcorn, to watch Mary Poppins, in the middle of night after the last baleful night where a woman-child had almost been killed terribly, so unfairly and now would need to bear the horrible consequences of it for the rest of her life. When minutes ago he'd been feeling like he was at the bottom of human grief, once again—yet again, so close to the edge… He looked up at Valerie, a small faint smile on his lips.

His perfect reason… His perfect reason believing so blindly in him… He was going to kiss her, when he reached to touch her cheek, he'd made up his mind. This time he was going to kiss her, slowly, without haste, basking in every second of it, savoring every little noise she would make, clutching to him, then he was going to take her in his arms, cradle her against his chest and was going to carry her to his bedroom. He was going to lay her over his bed then was going to make love to her slowly, was going to bury himself in her, and be lost in her, in her belief.

Then he had noticed her looking, then he had noticed her struggling while she was looking at him stupefied then the brief moment grew, stretched, and Valerie couldn't stop looking at him, her eyes clothed with uncertainty. And he had looked back at her, amused but stuck, his hand froze on her cheek, he couldn't have bent further, he couldn't have caught her lips, couldn't have pulled her closer… He had just looked at her back, curiously, to see what she was going to decide.

Then she decided on Mary Poppins. And just when Bruce thought he couldn't possibly fall for her any more, he fell a little further.

She pulled two mineral waters out of fridge as he poured the popcorn into a big bowl, and then set them on the counter. She waved her hands over the snacks, "Now, you take them to your room and I'll meet you there."

He knew he had to say go to the study, not his bedroom but he didn't want to. He wanted to be in his room. He wanted to have her inside his room, next to him, watching Mary Poppins. For years, he hadn't watched it, couldn't bring himself to. "Where are you going?" He managed to ask before she became lost behind the kitchen's door.

"I'll change into something cozier," she yelled without turning back.

Bruce momentarily distressed himself thinking what kind of lingerie she would show up in, one of his _gifts_, perhaps the one she hadn't managed to show him. A little smile tugged at the corner of his lips. That was his girl, even at the end of the world never passing an opportunity.

When she came back, wearing dark purple silken pajama set, long pants, and a top that didn't show any cleavage, he felt a little bit disappointed. He frowned. He was finally snapping, losing it, if he was starting to think along those lines.

She approached the bed and waved her hand. "Shoo," and he did, sliding to the left side and she climbed on the bed, settled herself beside him. She took the popcorn from him, stuck a handful of kernels in her mouth, and watched the movie's opening credits, her eyes gleaming eagerly.

Sitting beside him, for a moment she looked normal, then she gave him a sideways glance and half a smile and _then_ threw the cushions down, propped herself on her side, and threw her feet over his lower lap. Bruce didn't push them away.

She said the word and each time got it wrong as he pompously supplied her with the correct pronunciation, and she threw a handful of popcorn at him, her foot poking him, "Practically perfect, that's what I am too!" she exclaimed, and she looked—happy.

The urge to pull her close and kiss her senseless was so strong Bruce had to fist his hands into the sheet to keep them at his sides, even though he had no idea why he was doing it. Status quo, they'd fallen into a status quo, he realized.

She turned around, sprawled on her stomach, her feet wriggling rhythmically in the air along with the song they sung on the TV, hands stuffing popcorn in her mouth, and Bruce secretly watched her instead of the movie.

When the movie ended, she slipped under the thin duvet, "Please, friends sleep on the same bed, we already settled that debate," she said before his expected objections could be said, then closed her eyes. He smiled, pulled the thin duvet over him and turned off the TV, and rested his head on the pillow.

He hadn't planned to object, how could he? He stayed motionless, staring at the ceiling, half listening to her soft breathing, half waiting for her to make a move, but she didn't, she didn't even take the chance to press against him. Then Bruce understood he was going to need to shake her up good, profoundly, to break down the status quo.

"Valerie," he called her.

"Hmm," she mumbled sleepily, her eyes closed.

"Don't make any plans for the next few weekends, when my bandages come off, I'll take you out to—celebrate."

Her eyes still closed, he was rewarded with a big genuine smile.

* * *

_A/N: Bruce's wondering how many people is going to get killed because he refuses to kill the Joker a thing from the comics, which I find very telling, so wanted to explore that too. This talk was planned from the very beginning, and one of the reasons for this fic was to get Bruce ask desperately 'what I am now?'._

_'A life unexamined might not be worth living but a life dissected tends to be just a bloody mess,' is a quote by Random, who is an amazing author, whose works sucked me into this fanfiction business years ago. Her stories aren't archieved here, but (if you're into Stargate SG-1) on Daniel Jackson's Archieve. I have to say, without her inspiration and brilliancy I'd have never ever written anything at all._

_Now, wish me luck for that dreadful last part. :) _

_Be seeing you, hopefully soon._


	32. Chapter 28-Aftermath Part II

_A/N: Done in a week, not bad, I say._

_After posting the previous chapter, I also noticed that I did a very silly mistake. There is no way in hell Valerie doesn't know the detectives in Homicide department, so her Fields/Heels thing was beyond stupid, and for that, I'm sorry. I don't how it happened, really. It must be a brain malfunctioning. :) It's now fixed._

**Aftermath-Part II:**

* * *

Robinson Park seemed different than the night before, all traces of the past wiped clean, even down to the Harvey Dent statue. And he wasn't surprised. He sat at a bench close to the pool and watched the glinting surface, the little waves drumming to the shore. He took out his badge and looked at it for the last time. Tonight was the last night, with the morrow, with the new day, he was no longer going to be Commissioner, or Lieutenant Gordon, or even a police officer. Tomorrow morning, when he woke up, he was going to be James, just James, a father and perhaps, even a husband, once again.

He felt like someone had released his binds, unchained him, and even with the possibility of serving time it still felt liberating, and the emancipation filled his heart, together with hope and happiness, and he knew he deserved none.

He still wished for it though.

When the May—Garcia arrived, all of his wishful thinking stopped, withered, and died in the face of the harsh reality. He straightened, his back— his body rigid and tense, as the man sat next to him. "Commissioner."

Gordon shook his head. "It's Gordon now."

"Not yet."

His head whipped to him, and he saw the darkness underneath his usually elegant features, dark circles under tired eyes, saw a weariness bone deep that couldn't be masked; an expression Gordon had experienced himself for a long while. He imagined it would have made him happy, but instead he felt wary. "What do you mean?"

"Sins of the fathers," Garcia remarked slowly, then paused to look at the expression on his face. He laughed, his voice was as dry as an autumn leaf. "I only tried to do what you always wanted to do, Jim." Save Gotham, Gordon thought. At whatever costs, save Gotham. "I _am_ confessing," Garcia continued, "You're staying out of it. Gotham still needs you."

Gordon turned his head back, and looked at the pool once again then his eyes drew toward the spot where Dent's statue used to be. They all wanted to fight with the evil, but they forgot one point; it was impossible to win over evil without destroying the darkness that turned a child into a cold-blood killer, a darkness they all had their hands in creating. "Gotham doesn't need people like us. You knew who she was, and used her as bait, and she would have died because of us, because of our cowardice."

"You call this cowardice? A coward would have done what we did?" Garcia asked, "Accept the eternal damnation and do what has to be done?"

"Don't try to make yourself into a self-sacrificing hero. You're the villain of this story."

"Of course not, you fill that spot."

Anger filled his veins, and hit him hard, his vision darkening with the force of it. "Sandra can't speak, can't eat, and she still screams when the lights go out. Garcia," he spat, "that's what we let her become."

Garcia bowed his head, and whispered, "Yes."

"And what about that poor guy we framed, what about him?"

Garcia looked in his eyes. "Gods always ask for sacrifices, Jim."

"It wasn't God who did this to them."

"No," Garcia confessed again, his gaze still fixed on him. "Gotham still needs you though." He paused briefly as something passed over the surface of his eyes. "And _he_ still needs you, too."

His eyes narrowed, and he asked for the second time of the night, the danger bells ringing in his mind, "What do you mean?"

"This is my city," he whispered back heatedly. "Did you really believe that I wouldn't have noticed?" Gordon looked at him stupefied as the man continued to spill the secrets he'd thought they had buried deep a long time ago, "I know about Dent too," his eyes skipped the empty spot. "Ironic isn't it?" then he sighed, "It's impossible to stay clean in this world."

Gordon shook his head, and managed to ask, "How?"

"This is my city, Gordon," he repeated again, "and I like to think that nothing passes by me in my city." He looked at his face, and then laughed with the same dryness. "I noticed it first a few months after Dent's death. It was nothing more than a hunch at first, but I was curious. Then I started poke around, my people gather intel from the streets."

Gordon scowled. "Is there talk around _enough_ to imply it?" It couldn't be. He'd been surveying the streets himself, and yes, there was talk about Dent and him asking for cops, but those were rumors. And he'd himself made sure they remained as such.

"Not much, but I'm no ordinary man." He faintly smiled. "I know you, Gordon, and I sort of know him, and I used to know Dent as well, Harvey Two Face. Don't worry, no one is going to make the connection," he reassured, "Not in this life time."

Suddenly Gordon understood he was right, none was going to put two and two together; no one would bother to. "He was right about people in one point," Garcia continued, "Everyone wants their conscience to remain clean. People want things be dealt with but they don't want to know how you do it." He sighed, and Gordon kept his silence. "Do you know what I figured out the first time I stepped up on the dais as Mayor? When everything goes bad, people don't want to hear it. They just want you stand up there, look them in the eyes, and tell them, 'Everything is going to be okay. I'm here now. And we are all going to be okay.'"

He stood up. "You'll do well, Commissioner," he said before he vanished into the darkness.

* * *

The shadows under his veranda shifted, and the hidden figure shaped itself into a human form, six feet and three inches tall, upper body muscled and wide, strong legs sturdily supporting his weight. He must have been in a great deal of pain to stay still like that, Gordon mused briefly because covered only with a snow mask, out of his armor, Batman really looked close to human. And as this realization lurched something in his belly, he felt the bile rising to his mouth. Before he changed his mind, Gordon opened his mouth, "Garcia will speak tomorrow," he said. Batman listened motionlessly, his eyes behind the snow mask narrowed in assertion. "He will take the blame on himself, all of it."

"What?" he rasped out, and Gordon was surprised to hear the surprise in his voice.

"Garcia is confessing everything, but I'll keep the title," and he managed to say it without puking over on his own words. He didn't talk first, just looked at those eyes, so dark they almost turned to color of coals. A strong wind blew suddenly, it carried dust into his eyes, and rustled the leaves above them forcibly. Bad omens, Gordon thought, trying to suppress the urge to tremble, his eyes burning, and he wished Batman would stop looking at him like that.

And he did. Wordlessly, he turned his back and started to walk away. "I'm doing it for you," he yelled after him, words uttered in a plea, to make him see, to make him understand, because he had to, Batman, him of all people had to understand, had to forgive. "Because you still need me."

Batman turned back once again, "You knew about the girl—"

"I didn't know it," he explained, "I swear I didn't. Garcia didn't tell me that."

"And you think that makes you better than him?" Batman rasped, taking a step forward. "You let an innocent man be charged with murder, _Commissioner_," he paused, and his tone shifted as the disappointment crawled into his voice, "Or did Garcia keep that from you too?"

And the bile in his stomach rose even higher when he answered, "He was going to be released after a time. The evidence against him was only circumstantial." Finally, he managed to bring his eyes to him. "I did what I did for Gotham."

"You lied to me."

"I lied to Gotham too," he shot back, "because you asked me to."

He shook his head, taking a threatening step forward. Gordon kept his place. "I didn't make you to turn anyone into a scapegoat. That was my choice."

And Gordon finally truly understood that Batman really wasn't a hero, he never had been. A hero would face the dragons, he would throw himself in front of the flames without thinking, when he saw people out there, he would move, because it was what he was, and he didn't think, either about himself nor the consequences, he only did what he had to, to save people, but if he stopped and thought, actually thought about what he was willing to do, he would have stopped dead in his tracks, his legs would tremble in fear, his sword would drop from his grip. Courage mostly came without thinking, but still doing what had to be done, fully aware of its meaning, it required something else, another kind of bravery, to carry your own cross, to the path of self-sacrifice.

They could be all heroes, but they could never be _him._

But something lurched further in stomach, roared in protest, what else, what else was this man going to sacrifice, to what end? "Let me confess," he found himself whispering heatedly, words pouring out of his lips, and he listened to them as if it was someone else who was talking. "Let me confess, everything. The killer, Dent, cops, _everything_," he move closer, and finally pleaded, "Don't carry your own wood to the mountain to be slaughtered."

Batman, looking more like a human than anytime, stared at him, and for one moment, Gordon really believed that he was going to accept it; he looked tired, tired and weary, and he was a human after all, he was made flesh and blood, and he bled like everyone else, he had seen that with his own eyes. The next second, his muscles stiffened, his eyes darkened once again, and Gordon knew what he was going to say even before he rasped it out, voice familiar once again. "No."

"Then it's settled. I stay as the Commissioner."

His eyes bore through him, "I don't ask for your help."

"And you would never need to."

* * *

They watched the press conference together, Valerie's eyes watching him more closely than the screen. She hadn't said anything at first, after Bruce had come back from Gordon, only nodded, then slowly said, 'It's probably for the best. It's all Garcia's fault anyway.' She'd left unsaid that Gordon still being the Commissioner was _the best_ thing for them too.

As Garcia stepped off the dais, she turned off the TV, and sighed heavily. "Well, for better or worse, it has ended." she said.

His eyes turned toward the window, and he looked at Gotham, at the night falling in. "No," he countered slowly, "No, it has only begun."

Her elbow nudged him in his side. "Ouch!" She rolled his eyes as his face distorted with pain.

"Will you stop brooding, _please_? You've absorbed all of my life energy, and closed all of my chakras." She put her hand on his knee, and smiled at him. "Stop worrying, everything is going to be okay."

* * *

Burke stood leaning on the wall as Charlie knocked on the door heavily. "I told you, detectives," the squeaky man said once again, "there is no response. I've been trying since yesterday."

Burke nodded, "Yeah, yeah," and closed to Charlie. "Well, what we are supposed to do now? Break in?"

Charlie looked disturbed. "Well, she doesn't respond to her calls either, her telephone's been switched off." The old man sighed. "She wasn't looking good after—uh—" He sighed again, and turned to the building manager. "You say leaves have started to come out of her house into yours?"

"Not leaves," the man squeaked, "Ivy branches," he shook his head, looking baffled. "I don't know how but my walls are decorated with ivy branches, and they are coming out of _her_ house."

"Okay," Burke said, "Charlie, stand clear." He took three steps back, then ran toward the door. His shoulder collided with the heavy wood first, and he pulled back and threw himself again, again, and again, until the door cracked and let them in.

Burke walked in, and Charlie followed, after blocking the building manager. The air in the apartment was stale and heavy, like fresh air hadn't come in for a time, and it had an unnamable quality to it that both men knew from experience, something belonged to crime scenes. Their nerves tensed, they passed the entrance, and walked toward the living room, then stopped at the threshold.

Green, it was the first thing Burke saw, a dark oppressive green, filling every centimeter of the room, from the floor up to the ceilings, from the furniture to the walls, and little flowers, wrapped themselves around thick branches, trying to stay above the sea of green. "What the fuck..." Burke muttered, as Charlie bent down.

"A green house," he said, picking up a thin branch of ivy, "a green house."

Charlie stood up, and they both waded into the middle of the green, wondering if they would ever see Pamela again.

* * *

Alex Karanov walked out of County and into the back seat of the black Audi waiting on the corner of the street. "Cigarette?" he asked Donnie.

The chauffeur leaned over, pulled the glove compartment open and fished out a packet of Marlboro Lights.

"Marlboros?" he asked suspiciously. "You smoke Marlboros?"

"The streets aren't clean anymore. Need to be careful these days."

He nodded. Gotham wasn't as it had been. What kind of a city had even its criminals suspicious about illegal drugs? This city was getting more ridiculous each day, he thought, pulling out a cigarette, and throwing the packet back at Donnie. "The new packages come?"

"Yes, two days ago," he answered, "They're waiting. Andrei was waiting for you—and you know the stuff with this killer—and the Mayor—"

"I heard about it," Alex murmured, then scowled. "The police will be a problem now."

"Yeah," Donnie agreed. Even Andrei's chauffeur had to be smart; after all, he himself had started from Donnie's place. The police were going to be a problem, certainly. They needed to be more careful now. The public's eyes were turned on the force more than ever before. He scowled even further, looking at the cigarette in his fingers, before lowering the window and tossing it away. On the corner, he spotted the falafel stand, and his stomach grumbled at the sight of food. He tapped Donnie on the shoulder, "Pull over."

From his open window, he told the two vendors, "Two balls, and one coke," he turned to Donnie, "Want one?"

The chauffeur shook his head.

The smell of the hot balls twisted his stomach even harder, and he finished the first one even before Donnie started the car again. He took a bite from the second one. "Did you ask for the security images?"

The chauffer nodded, "Yes—but I don't know what came out."

Alex simply nodded back, throwing the packages out of the window. If not from security cameras then from another place; he was going to find that feisty bitch, and he was going to find his own bitch, then he was going to show them the extent of his displeasure. Days, days in the County Lockup… and the displeasure of Andrei. Unconsciously his fingers moved to the scratch over his upper arm where the bitch had electrocuted him, and frowning further, he dropped his hand.

They remained in silence for the rest of the trip.

When they arrived at Molten, Alex got out of the car and tilted his head to look up at the ever expanding building. Molten had changed—it wasn't the same hole in the wall that it had been five years ago, Molten had changed—Andrei had changed it. Once it was a pitiful third-grade motel with a simple bar featuring local strippers; the front of an honest establishment. Now it'd turned into a temple of _international_ pleasures under Andrei's filthy wings.

He walked in.

Andrei. _The man, the warrior… _Hesat behind a delicately engraved heavy wooden table, like he was sitting on his throne, one dark eye watched him, not revealing anything, while the other—the artificial sapphire—looked at him lifelessly. Sometimes he couldn't decide which eye had more life than the other… And there was his queen…his personal bitch, Dahlia standing up behind his throne, her long sharp fingers placed on the backrest, piercing blue eyes, tilted sharp nose, straight blonde hair just under her chin, dark red lips, emotionless face; as beautiful and cruel as ever. A perfect queen for a perfect king.

He stood in front of them until Andrei indicated the seat before the table with a small tilt of his head. He sat. "I will find that bitch, Andrei, I will find both of them."

Andrei nodded, "Yes, Alex. You will."

He nodded back. Andrei wasn't a man to threaten people willy-nilly so he wasn't really surprised when he didn't talk further. "Donnie said the CCTVs arrived, anything come up?" he asked instead.

"No. But there was a bombing at Cartier," Dahlia answered, her tone rich but free of any accent. "We believe your—problem is responsible for that as well. I asked the boys to tape the news for you. Check with them."

He nodded again. "The new packages?"

"The Charming Devil brought in five, all imported. All in their twenties…three of them unopened."

Alex scowled. "Twenties? Too old."

Dahlia gave him an exasperated look before slanting a worried one to Andrei. "We talked to Romen," she said. "Returned one, she was hideous, the rest were accepted. He will bring another in the next month."

Andrei lifted his head up to Dahlia. "Call Andamar and say you have one to his tastes. The dark one, prepare her for defloration." He moved his eyes to him. "You'll escort them to Andamar."

Alex nodded then Dahlia shifted in her place and a look—an unusual look of hesitation crept onto her features. "Katya is pregnant." Both of them looked at her. "I received the tests last night."

"How? Pills?"

"I—don't know. She was taking them. But no birth control methods are one-hundred percent effective."

"What? She's the one percent exception?" Alex asked incredulously.

"You should have done the injection," Andrei hissed. "Pills are not enough effective."

"She couldn't take it, I told you," Dahlia defended, then shrugged. "I'm going to take care of it."

Andrei nodded, she then asked, "I'll carry out the punishment?"

Andrei seemed to think on it for a moment then slowly shook his head. "Think of one, Alex will do it. It's time to imprint some lessons on the new girls…permanently."

For a moment, just for a moment, Alex let himself shudder, slightly. This was nothing personal, it was just business.

* * *

"I hear he was in the park too," Asim continued, but had to stop when a black Audi pulled beside them on the corner. The back window lowered, and a blond man asked for two balls. Asim waited patiently as he put the balls inside the box, watching the black luxury car, then started again after it cleared off. "Lark and Stein were there too before they flushed them out. Lark swore he saw _him_."

"In daylight," he asked back to his friend, "in the middle of all the police?"

"Well, we _saw_ him in the middle of all the police too, remember?" Asim countered, somewhat affronted by the uncertainty in his voice.

Though, he had a point. "Yes, we did," he accepted, "but it was at night and he wasn't working _with_ the police."

"I only say what I heard," Asim said back, now clearly affronted by his lack of belief.

"Yeah," he nodded, "I just don't trust that motherfucker."

Asim rolled his eyes, huffing out of his nose. "I don't know man. All he did was kill some old dirty cops, who cares?"

"He killed Dent too," he reminded his friend.

"Nah—I dunno. There is talk all around. Says Dent was looking for Weurtz in the Narrows before he was found dead."

"Where did you hear that?"

"Here and there—they still whisper his name in the night, you know. They fear. But I feel he means good. He cares. You know, last year when Sherly's pimp was about to blow her brains out, he broke all the man's bones… I mean, he can get rough at times, but at his core, I think he's a good fellow."

FIN

* * *

_A/N: Here it is, the 'FIN'. Only epilogue to go now._

_'He can get rough at times, but at his core, I think he's a good fellow,' was told first in the Chapter Three, in these two vendors are the ones who told it for a racketeering guy, and I always meant it to be a 'Batman' shout-out because if I had to come up with a tagline for Batman, I think, I'd say this for him; at his core he's a good guy with some temper problems :)_

_'Everything is going to be okay," is the last words of Thomas Wayne to Bruce, btw. I really liked that scene a lot, so wanted to use it also for Bruce and Valerie._

_I could talk about the self-sacrifice, the binding of Isaac, and the biblical references here a lot, but I don't have enough energy for it as the moment. :)_

_Even with the end, there were new faces, because in a way it really has only begun ;) (If you didn't notice, Bruce and Valerie haven't kissed yet too, properly:))_

_So, see ya the epilogue, for a new beginning :)_


	33. Epilogue

_A/N: Here it is... I'm gonna mark the story as complete after posting this, and it causes me a myriad of feeling...Part of me content, part of me sad... It's been long._

**Epilogue:**

* * *

Walking down the deserted hallway toward the room held Patient Zero, Mr. Crews couldn't help but think that it was terribly ironic. He brought the folder in his hands up, and voiced his thought to his companion, "I think, Mr. Walden, it's very ironic, him being lost the way his parent's had been; stolen and declared dead." He laughed, a voice low and deep out of his belly. "I'm sure they are going to call it _paper disarray_ too."

Mr. Walden's brows folded in a scowl. "We paid them to make it look like a paper malfunction, Mr. Crews."

He stopped in front of the door, and held the knob sturdy between his fingers. "Of course, we did. New day, new game." He opened the door, and the newly dawn's light filtered into the room. They both looked at the bed, where his broken figure laid, the mask already on his face, the poisonous cure, her sweet nectar already filling his veins. "And it's a long game we play."

The room was small, barely fifteen paces both ways, and it only had one simple wooden chair next to the bed, and she was already sitting there.

None of them talked, the heavy silence was only disturbed by the heavy breathing noise that his mask made, the muzzle strapped on his nose by dark brown leather, while the rest of it covered his neck, and his carotid artery, where his wound was open, and in the hole a little tube connected it to his mask, the dark red liquid feeding him. Idly, Mr. Crews wondered, how much pain he would be in when he woke up, if he ever woke up, that's was.

"A true Gotham child," Mr. Crews said thoughtfully. And perhaps, Gotham really was an evil place, a place that produced freaks like that. He glanced down at the folder, and started to list the basics, "Born in seventy-one, orphaned in age seven, fostered at seven and half. He left the city for UCLA, to study Mechanical Engineering, then dropped out of school in his twenties and came back to Gotham. He applied to the military and was discharged in the same year. 'Obedience problems, and _needless cruelty_," he read, his tone getting gentler, "ah, lovely. He rotated between jobs until he finally went completely off the grid," he paused before he said the final part, "And the name is—"

His words were cut off by her raised hand. "That is enough. His name is irrelevant; not necessary. Who he was is not as important as who he is going to be. When you save a life, Mr. Crews, it becomes yours." She stood up. "Sometimes we save people at the brink of the cliff and sometimes we save people from the very base of it, shattered into a million pieces. Then we put the pieces back in such a way that they end up being whoever we want them to be."

"What do you want him to be, Mistress?"

"My messenger, Mr. Crews, my messenger," she replied, and her eyes bore through his. "The days of reckoning are coming."

She left them alone and Mr. Crews slowly quoted, "_For storms will rage and oceans roar, when Gabriel stands on sea and shore, and as he blows his wondrous horn, old worlds die and new be born._"

"Prophecies?" asked Mr. Walden, his brows pulling into another scowl.

"My fine friend," Mr. Crews responded with a small sigh, looking at the broken man lying on the bed, "Doesn't it sound fitting?"

* * *

_Six months ago:_

A brief silence fell between them for a second then the second grew into a few more and before Mr. Crews could understand how it had happened, it stretched even more. Mr. Crews was walking with a relaxed but hastened pace beside Mr. Walden who was walking with his leisured pace. Mr. Walden had long legs, much, much longer than his, and even though his companion was a gentleman as always walking slowly for his benefit, a hastened pace was still needed to keep up with him.

Their contact had said she was going to be here tonight—after the preparations for months she had finally decided to grace them with her Highness's presence. Mr. Crews might have found it entertaining if he hadn't know this woman was more, much more dangerous than a sand viper crawling in the desert. But the silence between them had already grown into something more than tolerable so he quoted, voice laced with a mock of drama, "_Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned nor hell a fury like a woman scorned._"

"Shakespeare?"

"Actually, it was William Congreve, from one of his plays; the Mourning Bride." They walked into warehouse at the same time as they always did, regardless of their physical differences, they believed in equality in their relationship. "But in any cases, Mr. Walden, I believe it sums up quite nicely our current employer."

The warehouse was still how they had left it; a lab on the left side, and a metal chair in front of the lab, and a middle age man on it. The rest was a stark bleakness with lack of furniture. Upon seeing the man, Mr. Walden stirred next to him. He was getting reckless—too much waiting—"Maybe we should wait for her outside, Mr. Walden." he suggested.

Mr. Walden approved, nodding thoughtfully. Outside, Mr. Crews said, "He must be one of those poor souls who was always misunderstood in his time. '_Music has charms to soothe a savage breast_.' The very first line of his play and misquoted often as _'Music has charms to soothe a savage beast._'"

"I presume—"Mr. Walden countered slowly, "I presume beast is more fitting in this case than breast, Mr. Crews."

"Why, Mr. Walden, you're very well right indeed. Poor guy," he said again then saw a woman, _the woman_ was approaching.

She was moderately short, but slim, very slim, swinging like thin branch over the wind with an effortless grace but he was already aware that her grace was one of a steel; cold and deadly. She came closer and he saw she was strikingly beautiful as well, with a small heart shaped face, and soft features that held dignity and nobility, long jet black hair flowing to her waist. Her face was pale, her drawn black eyes were color of coals, and her plump lips were blood red even though he knew she wore no make-up.

There was a different kind of cayenne pepper on the hills of her home, and the women of her house were required to smear it over their lips so that none could steal a kiss without being burnt. He wondered if she could still feel the heat on her lips.

He bowed as Mr. Walden followed his example, "Ngey Khrimseshi—"He started in her native tongue but she raised her hand.

"I'm in exile, Mr. Crews," she said in English, voice cool, even, and without any accent, "I have no right to bear my title, and you will not bring me shame again by calling me with my honors."

Mr. Crews nodded, "Yes," then paused, "—"

"Mistress will do."

"As you wish, Mistress," he conceded, Mr. Walden remained in silence.

"He's inside?"

"Yes, Mistress."

She tilted her head toward the door and Mr. Walden opened it for her. She walked in, without hesitating; her steps were decisive, long heels clicking on the concrete floor. She stood up in front of the man and looked back behind her shoulder toward them. "Bring me something to sit."

In the farthest corner Mr. Walden found a tin case, offered it to her. She sat on it like she was sitting down on her throne. She looked down at the man. "Please—please—"Mr. Walden smacked at the back of the whimpering man's neck, his metal ring catching his skin, and Mr. Crews said, "You can't address Khrim—Mistress before she addresses you first, fool. She could just kill you now where you sit for shaming her."

The man lifted his eyes to hers, her eyes darkened even more, "I'm sorry—I—"Another smack landed on him, "You can't look at her either—you fool, you don't know anything about royals?"

"I—"

"Mr. Crews—he has my permission to talk," she informed him then Mr. Crews turned to her, "As you wish, Mistress," then back to the man again. "Talk now, but don't raise your eyes. You're still not allowed."

"Please—please—let me go, I didn't do anything—"

"We can't do that," Mr. Crews answered. "We need you to do something for us."

"Why—?" the man sputtered out, "You'll kill me nevertheless. There is no chance for me."

Her face soured with displeasure as she gazed up at them. "I concur you didn't explain the situation here to this outlander satisfactorily, gentlemen. Very well then, I'll do it myself." Then she commanded, "Raise your eyes," and the man did and who couldn't—her voice—her voice sounded like she had been born to give commands. "You're right. You will not see the daylight again. You will not survive this encounter. But you still have some chance to decide your fate, which is something very few have and for that you're a lucky man, and the stars are shining on you."

"What choice? I'm gonna die—"

"The manner of your death," she interrupted. "You can decide on your death. It can be merciful; quick and free of pain but if you deny my wish now, I guarantee you it will be most unpleasant. I don't like inflicting pain on others, Master Chemist, but if the occasion calls for it, I don't hesitate to do it either. The decision falls on you. Either way I will get what I've set to claim."

The man whimpered out, "How much—?"

"Just a handful would be enough. I don't aim for mass production."

"Okay—I'll do it," the man whimpered out again, "But it will be quick and painless—you swear on your life?"

"I'm giving you my word, Master Chemist, on my honor that your death will be swift and free of pain." She clutched his chin with two long, slender but forceful fingers and forced it backward. "You have my word, but if you try to deceive me—" Her fingertips dug into his flesh drawing blood, "I know all the formulas, I know exactly how long it takes to filtrate the amount I'm asking, the way I want it. _Don't_ bring me shame thinking that you can fool me. This is me being friendly. You don't want to see me hostile."

She stood up and walked out. Mr. Crews followed her, and Mr. Walden followed him, and Mr. Crews almost pitied the guy who had brought her vengeance upon his head with _his_ death. To their left side, on the warehouse's wall, a hazy bat-shaped figure, an old symbol remaining from the old days, was drawn over the dirt, filth, and peeled off plaster. She glared at the Bat Symbol then spat on the earth.

"You must have really loved the guy he killed," Mr. Crews found himself muttering—then waited for a slap—or even a dagger to come at him. His hand crawled towards the inside of his pocket and he saw Mr. Walden mimicking gesture the same.

Then the exiled princess, the former Khrimseshi of the League of Shadows, Talia al Ghul turned back and said, "Mr. Crews, there was none I hated more."

* * *

_Oh yes, I hope you didn't think that I'd leave without a BANG! I live for dramatic exits :)_

_Khrimseshi, is my sort-of-made-up almost-Tibetan word for 'the rightful one'. _

_Since the Batman Begins, I've always asked myself how Henri Ducard, a very Caucasian man, is the leader of the a super-secret ninja group. TDKR sort of touched on this issue, and explained it, but I was curious, so tried to explain it in my own way. Talia is a bit different from her comic counterpart, there will be no Bruce-Talia romance, because I didn't want to turn this to 'Bruce's Harem'. And her relationship with 'Bane' will be much more different too. Speaking of which, yes, I planned from the beginning Boy ending up as Bane, again different from comics but I think the heart of Bane's character is destruction. He twisted Gotham into a necropolis, twisted the otherwise decent people into monsters like himself, and there are no monsters...This is the bane of our existence, there is only us, humans. I chose to go to this path with him, instead of portraying him as a brainless Muscles, or a wanna-be revolutionist as these people are my own interpretations. _

_For the last words, I want to thank you my wondrous editor **Moonstruck Kitten** again. Without her patience and skills this thing really wouldn't be the same, and she certainly has her labor, pain, and elbow grease in Contact, and in me as a writer. If nothing else, she taught me the run-ons rarely are a good narrative, and the importance of nightmarish 'the' :)_

_And** Progenitus**, who makes 'Contact' another sort of experience, full of fun, and a whirlwind of Google searching, and gossip and much, much more. I guess, it takes a megalomaniac to get a narcissist. :)_

_And for the last, every each of you, who read this till here, just by reading you've seen an inch of me that none has ever seen in my 'real' life, and for that, for that alone, I want you to know that I've seen you too, wherever you are, whoever you are I've seen you too. _

_So I'm signing this to you:_

_All the people fall upon the beat and get behind it  
I want you to myself  
Can we take this somewhere else?  
My heart's an open book and you just took it off the shelf_

_Jutty Ranx, I see you_

_Be seeing you ;)_

_G._


End file.
